NOVEL 


ND  CANDLER 


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UC-NRLF 


$B    m?    AMD 


GANDHI  MEMORIAL 
LIBRARY 


fif ^  %  ?Rr    ^  eft  W?=^  f  R  ^  ^  I 

THERE  IS  NO  SUCH  THING  AS  DEFEAT  IN 

NONVIOLENCE.  THE  END    OF  VIOLENCE  IS 

SUREST  DEFEAT. 

THE   LIBRARY  OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


ABDICATION 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/abdicationOOcandrich 


ABDICATION 

BY 

EDMUND   CANDLER 

AUTHOR  OF   "  SIRI  RAM  ' 


CONSTABLE    &    COMPANY   Ltd. 
LONDON     •     BOMBAY     •     SYDNEY 


First  Published  ig22 


VM^L^cj  /a^r^^l 


Pkintbo  in  Great  Britain  bV  Richard  Clay  &  Sons,  Limited, 

BUNGAY,   SUFFOLK. 


TO 

MY  WIFE 


M7r^7l7 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


THE  UNVEILING  OF  LHASA 
THE  LONG  ROAD  TO  BAGHDAD 
THE  MANTLE  OF  THE  EAST 
ON  THE  EDGE  OF  THE  WORLD 
SIRI   RAM:    REVOLUTIONIST 


CONTENTS 


II.  BANARSI    DAS 

III.  THE   CAVE   OF   ADULLAM     . 

IV.  BARKATULLAH 

V.  THE   PARIAH   OF   FORTUNE 

VI.  CHATTER  JI      » 

VII.  THE   MAHATMA    COMES 

VIII.  THE   MEETING    IN   THE    SQUARE 

IX.  RILEY   .... 


I 

28 

64 

109 

212 
241 
264 


ABDICATION 

CHAPTER  I 

THE 


Riley  was  aware  of  a  perceptible  lifting  of  the 
heart  as  he  rode  through  the  Mori  Gate  and  left  Anglo- 
India  behind  him.  The  frank  squalor  of  the  city 
pleased  his  eye  if  not  his  nose.  Thompsonpur  was 
efficient,  and  logically  planned  to  serve  the  conveniences 
of  life,  but  unsatisfying  whether  viewed  by  the  inward 
or  the  outward  eye.  The  barracks,  the  cupolaed  tele- 
graph and  post  offices,  the  hideous  excrescent  cathedral 
with  its  slate  pepper-box  spires,  depressed  him.  The 
new  PubHc  Gardens  with  their  half-grown  trees,  each 
bearing  a  zinc  ticket  inscribed  by  some  sedulous 
botanist  with  its  scientific  name,  made  him  think  of 
real  gardens  and  real  trees;  the  garish  flower-beds 
of  homely  herbaceous  borders  in  cool  lands;  and  the 
thinly  sprouting  turf,  of  genuine  green  lawns.  The 
road  beyond  was  straight  and  broad ;  one  sighted  folk 
a  mile  before  one  met  them. 

The  shops  and  houses  on  either  side  were  neither 
of  the  East  nor  of  the  West.  Each  was  approached 
by  an  in-an-out  drive,  bordered  by  a  cHpped,  dusty. 


2  ABDICATION 

two-foot  hedge  of  duranta,  as  ugly  as  a  toothbrush. 
The  plinths  were  high,  the  red-brick  verandahs  spacious. 
There  was  any  amount  of  space  in  Thompsonpur. 
In  the  Deputy  Commissioner's  compound  there  was 
camping  ground  for  a  battalion ;  in  the  Commissioner's 
for  a  brigade.  Government  House  was  yet  in  the 
building,  but  it  was  estimated  that  the  grounds  would 
be  as  big  as  Bushey  Park.  One  had  left  it  two  miles 
behind  before  one  reached  the  Mori  Gate  and  the  defile- 
ment of  the  city.  One  had  to  pass  the  fire-engine 
station  with  the  chimneys  of  the  electric  power-house 
behind  it;  then  blocks  of  houses,  shops,  and  hotels. 
Here,  too,  the  verandahs  were  roomy,  the  plinth  high, 
and  on  the  frieze  above  the  pillars,  in  glazed  enamelled 
letters,  such  words  as  Globe,  Empire,  British,  Victoria, 
European,  caught  the  eye,  canaHsing  the  impressions 
of  the  Imperial-minded,  which  run  in  channels  none 
too  broad  at  any  time.  The  Curzon  Cafe,  the  Minto 
Motor  Works,  the  Hardinge  Home,  all  spoke  of  the 
casual  and  matter-of-fact  way  in  which  we  dump  our 
British  institutions  on  an  unresponsive  and  reluctant 
soil. 

Unresponsive,  Riley  noted,  but  not  consistent  in 
its  lack  of  response.  Thompsonpur  being  an  outpost 
of  Progress,  had  its  statuary  like  other  advanced 
towns.  The  monument,  or  effigy,  as  Samuel  Butler 
would  have  called  it,  of  Queen  Victoria,  the  gift  of 
Rai  Bahadur  Muni  Ram,  O.B.E.,  Chairman  of  the 
Municipality,  fronted  the  Mori  Gate.  Riley  reined 
up  as  he  passed  it,  and  watched  an  adoring  Jat  pros- 
trate himself  on  the  plinth.  The  peasant's  homage 
was  paid  to  a  feeble  amorphous  old  lady  tottering 
forward  without  a  stick,  with  a  scroll,  or  proclamation, 
in  her  hand,  which  she  held  out  cajolingly.     It  might 


THE   *  HARTAL'  8 

have  been  the  advertisement  of  some  potent  drug. 
The  Jat  surmising  something  divine  in  the  marble  of 
the  figure,  and  its  eminence,  and  dazzled  by  the  white- 
ness of  it,  was  paying  his  dues.  The  old  man's  reverence 
for  the  estabhshed  token,  whatever  it  might  signify, 
struck  Riley  as  peculiarly  pathetic  at  the  moment, 
though  it  did  not  diminish  his  mood  of  abdication. 
He  rode  through  the  gate  with  a  vague  sense  of  squan- 
dered opportunities,  dreamily,  neglecting  to  moraUse, 
or  rather  to  pursue  his  moral  to  a  conclusion,  as  was 
his  wont. 

Riley  had  forgotten  what  had  taken  him  to  the  city. 
He  was  only  conscious  that  he  had  left  Thompsonpur. 
"  The  City,"  by  the  way,  must  not  be  confused  with 
Thompsonpur.  That  was  the  name  of  the  "  Civil 
Station "  and  cantonments  that  had  grown  up  all 
round  it,  the  headquarters  of  the  youngest  canal  colony, 
and  the  capital  of  the  New  Province.  The  walled  city 
within  the  gate  had  been  known  since  the  days  of  the 
Mahdbharata,  that  is  to  say,  since  the  dawn  of  time, 
as  Gopalpura.  Yet,  though  Thompsonpur  had  entirely 
eclipsed  it,  visually  and  materially,  it  had  been  per- 
mitted to  retain  its  ancient  name.  Once,  in  the  Thomp- 
son era,  the  genius  of  the  city  had  narrowly  escaped 
being  deposed.  Riley  still  kept  among  his  office  files 
the  letter  of  Rai  Bahadur  Muni  Ram,  Chairman  of 
the  Municipahty — or  was  it  the  Rai  Sahib's  predecessor  ? 
— in  which  he  suggested  that  in  conformity  with  fitness 
Gopalpura  should  henceforth  be  known  as  Thompson- 
pur City,  or  Old  Thompsonpur.  That  was  when  Sir 
Thomas  Thompson  (K.G.I. E.,  G.S.I.)  was  yet  aUve, 
fifty  years  before  Riley  had  taken  over  the  editorial 
chair  of  the  Gazette,  in  the  happy  days  when  the  loyal 
Indian  was  not  afraid  of  betraying  his  honest  emotions. 


4  ABDICATION 

Muni  Ram  wished  to  prove  himself  the  agent  by 
which  the  halo  already  irradiating  the  brow  of  the 
creator  of  the  youngest  canal  colony  should  attain 
full  circle.  He  hoped  perhaps  that  a  ray  of  beatifica- 
tion might  descend  upon  his  own  head.  But  Gopalpura 
remained  Gopalpura.  Sir  Thomas  Thompson  cared 
for  none  of  these  things. 

Once  through  the  gate  Riley  left  the  main  bazaar 
and  drifted  into  the  network  of  alleys,  too  narrow  to 
admit  wheels.  By  stretching  out  his  arms  he  could 
almost  touch  the  walls  on  either  side.  On  this  hot 
and  sultry  afternoon  Gopalpura  was  asleep.  One 
moved  in  an  atmosphere  of  ancient  and  undisturbed 
peace.  Muni  Ram's  baptismal  zeal  had  spared  the 
Hindu  quarter  of  the  city,  which  had  escaped  Thomp- 
sonisation  in  feature,  as  in  name.  Few  of  these  houses 
had  been  vulgarised  by  modern  hands.  The  walls 
of  the  lower  stories  were  all  dead  to  the  street.  But 
in  some  the  doors  stood  open,  huge  brass-studded 
gateways,  through  which  one  had  a  glimpse  of  a  court- 
yard, a  well,  a  thorn-tree,  gentle-eyed  cattle,  or  it 
might  be  a  small  shrine  with  an  image  of  Ganesh 
smeared  all  over  with  red  paste.  An  old  serving- 
woman  would  look  up  from  her  sleepy  work  at  the  sound 
of  horses'  hoofs  in  the  alley,  or  a  lemon-coloured  skirt 
ghde  behind  a  pillar  as  softly  as  a  shadow.  The  lintels 
of  the  doors  were  of  shisham  wood,  the  colour  of  walnut, 
intricately  carved.  Many  of  the  windows  were  cor- 
belled, the  lattices  and  screens  fretted,  the  balconies 
supported  by  brackets  of  wood  or  stone.  In  one  house, 
the  property  of  an  ancient  line  of  astrologers,  the 
cornice  was  supported  by  rows  of  stone  peacocks 
purple-beaked,  with  purple  golden-starred  wings, 
spread  fanwise  behind.    The  passage  leading  to  it 


THE   *  HARTAL'  5 

was  a  blind  alley.  Riley  remembered  the  guilty  sense 
of  prying  he  had  when  he  first  explored  these  purlieus. 
The  charm  of  the  quarter  revived  in  him  feelings  which 
he  had  almost  forgotten,  the  curiosity,  the  love  of 
unfamiliar  things,  the  itching  for  adventure  he  had 
felt  six  years  earlier  when  he  first  came  out  to  India — 
"  the  romance  of  the  East,"  still  exploited  by  managers 
of  theatres  and  novehsts,  though  one's  sensitiveness 
to  it  has  been  dulled  by  the  war,  which  has  flattened 
out  everything  or  brought  it  too  near  to  us;  or,  as 
in  Riley's  case,  by  the  hybrid  cares  of  politics,  and  racial 
questions  which,  attractive  as  they  are  to  certain 
minds  as  an  abstract  theme,  have  a  way  of  presenting 
themselves  in  concrete  instances  in  their  naked  common- 
place, divested  of  all  glamour. 

As  Riley  passed  the  small  kiosk-like  Hanuman 
shrine  set  in  the  wall  at  the  comer  of  the  astrologer's 
street  and  came  out  into  Sheikh  Afzal's  bazar,  he  was 
conscious  of  a  stir.  Evidently  during  the  few  minutes 
he  had  been  loitering  in  these  backwaters,  something 
had  happened ;   something  unusual  was  afoot. 

An  atmospheric  change  had  come  over  the  city. 
Everyone  was  running  about  excitedly.  He  met  a 
man  charging  down  the  street  with  a  huqa  in  his  hand, 
another  carrying  a  brass  mortar  and  pestle,  yellow 
with  pounded  turmeric.  It  seemed  that  for  some  reason 
all  the  normal  activities  of  life  were  held  in  suspense. 
He  heard  the  jingle  of  metal-ware  and  crockery  hastily 
packed  away,  the  bolting  of  locks,  the  rattling  of  sliding 
doors,  the  closing  down  of  shutters.  He  was  mystified 
by  the  spontaneity  of  it  all.  He  saw  folk  running 
and  looking  over  their  shoulders,  as  if  seeking  shelter 
from  an  unseen  hand,  as  who  should  say,  "  It  has  come." 
It  was  like  a  rustle  in  the  trees  before  a  storm.    A 


6  ABDICATION 

dust-storm  or  an  earthquake  crossed  his  mind.  He  had 
seen  people  running  about  in  just  the  same  way  in  an 
earthquake.  His  sense  of  something  impending  was 
so  strong  that  he  even  imagined  a  darkening  of  the 
sky.  Someone  was  shouting  that  the  shops  were 
already  closed  in  every  other  quarter  of  the  city. 
Then  above  the  confused  murmur  he  heard  the  cry 
of  "  Mahatma  Gandhi-ki-jai,"  and  he  remembered 
it  was  the  hartal,  Gandhi  had  been  arrested.  The 
news  had  just  reached  the  bazar.  Riley  had  expected 
it,  but  he  had  heard  nothing  an  hour  earlier  when  he 
left  Thompsonpur  and  the  offices  of  the  Gazette. 

The  rhythmic  chorus  v/as  repeated  all  down  the  narrow 
alleys,  tributary  to  the  bazar.  Women's  voices  could 
be  heard  chanting  it  from  the  upper  stories  of  the  houses. 
Riley  was  conscious  of  a  stir  behind  closed  lattices; 
purdah  chicks  were  held  aside  an  inch's  space  from  the 
doorways  of  the  balconies,  giving  glimpses  of  pale 
hands  and  faces,  paler  than  any  that  could  be  seen  in 
the  street.  It  was  said  that  the  women  of  Gopalpura 
adored  Gandhi.  They  had  never  seen  him,  but  they 
spoke  of  him  as  an  avatar.  Now  their  eyes,  straining 
through  the  lattices,  were  focussed  on  an  Englishman, 
a  rare  sight  at  any  time  in  the  purHeus  of  the  city, 
and  at  this  particular  moment  more  than  a  little  pro- 
vocative. Riley  would  have  given  a  great  deal  to 
read  their  fears  and  hopes,  the  nature  and  dimensions 
of  their  hostiHty.  They  loved  Gandhi  because  they 
thought  him  a  holy  man,  and  believed  that  he  had  the 
power  to  rid  India  of  the  incubus  of  which  he,  Riley, 
was  a  symbol;  yet  Gandhi  their  prospective  saviour, 
was  arrested,  while  the  casual  Englishman,  of  the  race 
of  the  Mahatma's  persecutors,  the  visible  refutation 
of  his  pride,  was  at  large,  a  soHtary  intruder  isolated 


THE   *  HARTAL'  7 

among  many  thousands.  And  no  one  laid  hands  on 
him.  He  could  imagine  rays  of  malevolence  emitted 
from  behind  the  latticed  windows,  pricking  his  sensitive 
skin  Hke  sparks.  He  was  aware  of  the  sullen  gloom 
of  the  faces  in  the  crowd,  the  hostile  glances  thrown 
at  him  from  the  balconies.  No  doubt  they  believed 
all  manner  of  evil  of  his  Enghsh  soul.  Yet  their 
hostility  aroused  no  resentment  in  him.  "It  must 
be  beastly  being  run  by  foreigners,"  he  thought; 
*'  I  should  hate  it.  Of  course  it  was  aR  right  before 
they  began  to  worry  about  these  things.  What  a 
bore  it  must  be  to  be  poUtically  minded,  if  one  happens 
to  be  of  a  subject  race."  He  felt  less  charitable  when 
men  spat  as  he  passed.  A  potsherd  thrown  from  an 
upper  window  struck  the  closed  shutters  of  a  shop, 
glanced  against  his  mare's  quarters  and  set  her  plung- 
ing. He  was  glad  to  have  a  horse  imder  him  and  to 
feel  again  the  illogical  sense  of  security  he  had  derived 
more  than  once  when  imder  fire  from  being  mounted. 
Some  hairy-breasted,  half-naked  fanatic  clutched 
at  his  bridle.  He  struck  at  the  man's  hand  with  his 
whip  and  urged  his  mare  on.  The  crowd  yielded  and  he 
passed  through  into  the  open  square  by  the  mosque 
pursued  only  by  hoots.  He  heard  the  cry  of  "  Topi- 
walla."  The  chant  of  mourning  became  one  of  hate. 
All  down  the  street  behind  him  the  dirge  for  the  ma- 
hatma  ceased,  and  there  arose  a  more  sinister  and  angry 
chorus,  "Hai  Hai  Rowlatt  Bill."  It  followed  him 
through  the  square  by  Amir  Khan's  mosque  and  the 
relative  quiet  of  Hari  Mandi.  The  echo  of  the  rhythmic 
beat  of  it  sounded  in  his  ears  till  he  passed  through  the 
Baradari  Gate  and  regained  the  complacent  security 
of  Thompsonpur. 


ABDICATION 


II 


Riley  had  almost  threaded  the  city  when  his  eye 
was  caught  by  a  signboard  emblazoned  with  the  rising 
sun,  and  he  remembered  for  the  first  time  since  he 
entered  the  Mori  Gate,  what  had  brought  him  to 
Gopalpura.  The  red  ball  of  fire  with  porcupine  bristles 
such  as  one  sees  on  Persian  Consulates  in  the  East 
irradiating  the  lion,  advertised  to  the  world  the  offices 
of  the  Roshni — a  word  of  which  the  literal,  though  in 
this  instance  euphemistic,  interpretation  is  "  Light." 
The  particular  torch-bearer  in  Gopalpura  was  one 
Barkatullah,  a  fanatical  firebrand  who  was  seldom 
seen,  but  whose  shrill  insistent  voice  with  its  message 
of  hate  penetrated  to  every  city  in  the  north  of  India, 
and  even  disturbed  the  peace  of  mind  of  bureaucracy 
in  Thompsonpur.  Memsahibs  had  heard  of  the  Roshni 
and  Barkatullah.  The  editor's  name  was  associated 
vaguely  with  gathering  storms,  and  in  the  mind  of 
the  provident  with  such  questions  as  whether  it  was 
worth  while  booking  a  return  passage  to  Bombay. 
The  Deputy  Commissioner  knew  him,  and  the  Super- 
intendent of  Police;  his  record  filled  two  almirahs  in 
the  offices  of  the  C.I.D.  But  apart  from  the  policeman 
and  the  magistrate  his  encounters  with  EngHshmen 
were  negligible.  Riley  was  probably  the  only  member 
of  the  Thompsonpur  Club  who  wished  to  extend  them. 
He  believed  in  contact.  If  only  they  met  us  and  knew 
us,  he  argued,  it  would  be  all  right.  All  this  alienation 
is  more  than  half  our  own  fault.  Naturally  folk  cannot 
come  to  an  understanding  who  are  always  shouting 
angrily  at  each  other  through  an  impenetrable  thick- 
set hedge ;  naturally  they  are  blind  to  any  human  trait 


THE   *  HARTAL'  9 

that  may  be  discovered  in  the  unseen  monster  lurking 
on  the  other  side.  But  "  young  Riley  "  was  an  eccentric, 
a  visionary.  His  tastes  were  unorthodox,  his  sym- 
pathies suspect.  He  was  always  hobnobbing  with 
riff-raff  and  poking  his  nose  into  queer  places.  If 
it  had  not  been  for  a  certain  pleasant  air  he  had,  and 
the  fact  that  he  had  earned  an  M.G.  and  a  bar  to  his 
D.S.O.  in  Mesopotamia,  one  might  have  taken  him 
for  a  Radical.  Most  men  you  met  at  the  bar  or  in  the 
billiard-  or  bridge-room  at  the  Thompsonpur  Club 
would  tell  you  that  he  was  letting  the  Gazette  down, 
and  that  it  was  a  great  pity  that  he  had  been  appointed 
to  act  for  Willsdon  when  he  was  at  home  on  leave. 
"  Willsdon  was  fine.  He  let  the  beggars  have  it.  But 
you  never  knew  how  to  take  Riley  or  what  he  would 
be  at  next.  That  last  leader  he  stuck  in  about  Gandhi 
was  positively  anti-British.  It  might  have  been  written 
by  a  Babu." 

Opportunities  for  contact  on  the  afternoon  of  April 
loth  were  not  propitious  in  Gopalpura;  or,  rather, 
contact  was  likely  to  take  the  form  of  collision.  More- 
over, there  was  no  sign  of  Ufe  in  the  Roshni  as  Riley 
rode  by.  The  "  Light  "  was  extinguished.  The  doors 
were  closed  and  padlocked  on  the  street.  The  illumina- 
tor was  away  swinging  his  torch  elsewhere  no  doubt; 
the  blunder  of  Gandhi's  arrest  had  added  lustre  to  it. 
Riley  wondered  what  had  happened  to  Banarsi  Das, 
who,  he  heard,  had  become  Barkatullah's  protege 
though  he  was  about  to  be  rejected  by  him.  He  pic- 
tured him  in  the  procession,  one  of  the  torch-bearers, 
crying  out  with  the  others,  "  Hai  Hai  Rowlatt  Bill; 
Mahatma  Gandhi-ki-jai."  He,  too,  would  be  stuffed 
full  of  rumours  and  Hes.  It  was  on  account  of  Banarsi 
Das  that  Riley  had  come  to  the  city.    Skene  had  written 


10  ABDICATION 

to  him  from  Gandeshwar  asking  him  to  look  after  his 
old  pupil,  who  had  drifted  after  many  failures  into  the 
Roshni  office,  though  apparently  Barkatullah  had  no 
further  use  for  him.  Skene  mentioned  two  or  three 
appointments  he  had  obtained  for  Banarsi  Das,  none 
of  which  he  had  held  for  any  length  of  time.  Riley 
had  openings  for  proof-readers  and  had  promised  to 
give  the  young  man  a  chance,  though  he  was  not  a 
promising  proteg6.  He  might,  of  course,  have  sent 
for  Banarsi  Das,  but  he  preferred  to  look  in  at  the 
Roshni  office  casually.  It  seemed  a  good  chance  of 
getting  into  touch  with  the  Illuminator.  As  a  further 
pretext  for  his  visit  he  had  a  profitable  scheme  to  dis- 
cuss with  Barkatullah  which  would  secure  the  Roshni 
many  columns  of  advertisements.  Riley  was  one 
of  many  whom  Skene,  the  Principal  of  Gandeshwar 
College,  had  asked  to  advance  the  interests  of  Banarsi 
Das.  The  collective  efforts  of  heads  of  departments 
on  behalf  of  this  worthless  young  miscreant  called  to 
mind  the  birth-pangs  of  mountains  in  the  nativity 
of  a  mouse.  But  Banarsi  Das  had  a  special  claim 
for  tutelage,  if  not  for  sympathy,  and  the  weight  of 
responsibility  sat  heavily  on  Skene.  Riley  had  heard 
his  story.  The  youth  had  been  the  bosom  friend  of 
Siri  Ram  who  had  murdered  Merivale  at  Gandeshwar 
railway  station  and  who  would  have  been  hanged  for 
it  in  Gandeshwar  Gaol  if  he  had  not  taken  poison  in 
his  condemned  cell  a  few  hours  before  the  moment 
appointed  for  his  dispatch.  Banarsi  Das  had  been 
taken  to  see  Siri  Ram  in  the  prison.  He  had  bent  over 
his  dead  body  when  it  was  still  warm,  and  tried  to 
resuscitate  it  into  life.  Skene  had  led  him  away, 
weeping  bitterly.  After  that  Banarsi  Das  had,  figura- 
tively, fed  out  of  the  hand  of  Skene  for  a  year,  a  contrite 


THE   '  HARTAL  '  11 

youth,  devoted  to  his  Principal  and  seeing  in  him  a 
benevolent  impersonation  of  the  Raj.  Riley  had 
Siri  Ram's  story  from  Skene.  A  more  pathetic  history 
he  had  never  heard.  A  weak  youth,  compact  of  vanity, 
yet  not  devoid  of  virtue,  he  had  become  the  dupe  and 
scapegoat  of  the  revolutionists,  who  had  dragooned 
every  generous  instinct  in  him  and  perverted  it,  and 
then  led  him  blindfold  to  the  sacrificial  stone. 

Banarsi  Das,  Skene  believed,  or  such  was  his  impres- 
sion of  him  as  a  student,  was  a  youth  of  the  same  kidney, 
the  prey  of  chance  influences,  equally  impressionable, 
gulUble,  and  unstable.  Skene  had  been  faithful  to 
his  unspoken  vow  made  over  Siri  Ram's  body  in 
Gandeshwar  Gaol,  to  help  the  youth  as  far  as  he  was 
able.  Riley  had  not  all  the  details  of  Banarsi  Das' 
record.  He  knew  that  he  had  been  a  clerk  in  a  Coopera- 
tive Credit  Society,  then  a  master  in  a  Government 
School.  He  had  given  up  this  post,  quite  in  the  manner 
of  Siri  Ram.  No  one  could  accuse  Banarsi  Das  of 
initiative;  yet  in  a  sense  it  might  be  said  of  him  that 
he  was  a  non-cooperator  before  the  age  of  non-coopera- 
tion. Now  to  all  appearances  he  was  being  swept 
off  his  feet  by  the  new  tide  of  agitation.  His  presence 
in  the  Roshni  office  could  mean  nothing  else.  He, 
too,  had  become  a  cultivator  of  the  plant  "  Rumour  " 
in  the  garden  of  lies.  The  disturbance  Riley  had 
witnessed  in  the  bazar  had  been  a  ripple  of  the  Rowlatt 
Act.  He  remembered  how  the  He  had  been  born, 
and  how  confidence  in  Government  had  been  destroyed 
in  a  week.  On  Monday  it  was  given  out  that  a  new 
Act  had  been  passed  against  the  liberties  of  the  people. 
On  Tuesday  they  were  saying  in  the  bazar,  "  Indians 
may  never  be  seen  together  in  crowds.  It  is  forbidden 
that  four  persons  should  talk  together  in  the  street." 


12  ABDICATION 

On  Wednesday  it  was  said,  "  No  longer  will  one  be  able 
to  follow  the  marriage  ceremonies  of  one's  own  relations. 
The  heart  of  Government  is  black  towards  the  people. 
This  is  the  reward  of  our  services  in  the  war."  Thurs- 
day repeated,  "  The  hated  police  will  supervise  the 
funerals  of  our  dear  relatives.  Government  is  about 
to  seize  our  grain."  And  Friday,  "  Even  family 
gatherings  and  meetings  for  prayers  are  prohibited, 
and  if  an  ill-wisher  gives  a  report  to  the  police  about 
anyone,  however  false  it  may  be,  that  person  will  be 
arrested  and  cast  into  prison  without  any  form  of 
trial."  On  Saturday  it  was  darkly  whispered,  "  Our 
brides  are  to  be  examined  by  doctors;  their  dowries 
are  to  be  taxed.  Land  revenue  will  be  doubled  and 
trebled.  Liberty  is  dead.  There  is  nothing  before  us 
but  ruin  and  shame." 

Months  passed  and  none  of  these  dreadful  things 
happened,  yet  rumour  kept  resentment  alive.  How 
much  was  deliberately  grafted  on  the  plant,  how  much 
grew  of  itself,  was  one  of  the  mysteries  of  the  East  that 
are  never  determined.  Evidently  the  will  to  believe 
was  there.  The  same  kind  of  talk  must  have  been 
heard  in  the  bazars  in  '57  when  the  story  of  the  pig- 
defiled  cartridges  was  propagated  with  its  progeny  of 
lies.  The  nature  of  the  soil,  Riley  morahsed,  is  more 
important  than  the  seed  that  falls  on  it.  Was  it  our 
fault,  he  wondered,  that  the  ground  had  become  too 
sterile  to  bear  any  decent  crop?  The  Rowlatt  Act 
certainly  was  bad  husbandry,  a  tactless  measure  at 
the  time.  Yet  if  it  had  not  been  that,  it  would  have 
been  something  else.  Had  the  Bill  never  been  moved 
or  passed,  the  agitator  would  have  found  some  other 
measure  to  torture  into  the  expression  of  bureaucratic 
malevolence.    In  the  old  days  he  had  been  content 


THE     HARTAL'  18 

with  the  perversion  of  the  intelligentsia;  now  he  was 
turning  to  the  political  education  of  the  masses.  It 
was  not  a  pleasant  thing  to  watch  the  infection  at 
work.  In  that  lull  before  the  storm  when  Riley  found 
himself  in  Sheikh  Afzal's  bazar  he  felt  as  if  he  had 
been  in  contact  with  some  spirit.  If  he  had  not  heard 
its  voice,  he  had  been  watching  people  who  were  listen- 
ing to  it.  Afterwards  he  thought  of  Rumour  as  a 
person,  lurking  in  alleys,  and  behind  the  great  wooden 
doors  of  havelis,  dwelling  in  temples,  and  mosques  and 
ruined  tombs,  an  ugly  monster,  erect  or  latent,  fed 
with  lies,  and  sometimes — and  here  was  more  sustaining 
nourishment — with  half-truths. 


HI 

Half  an  hour  after  he  had  passed  through  the  Bara- 
dari  Gate  the  club  received  him,  sohd,  homely,  inviting, 
a  fortress  against  the  invasion  of  hybrid  cares.  There 
were  times  when  he  hated  the  place;  to-night  he  was 
only  conscious  of  its  compensations.  He  approached 
the  bar  with  stealth,  peering  through  the  glass  of  the 
folding  doors — a  somewhat  apprehensive  reconnais- 
sance. All  manner  of  men  were  collected  there, 
standing  in  groups  at  the  bar,  or  sitting  in  arm-chairs 
round  little  tables,  men  he  would  run  miles  to  avoid, 
and  men  after  his  own  heart.  He  looked  for  Dean 
the  policeman,  lately  transferred  from  Gandeshwar. 
Dean  would  be  able  to  tell  him  about  the  arrest  of 
Gandhi  and  whether  there  was  any  likelihood  of  trouble ; 
but  Dean  was  away,  probably  in  the  bazar  stemming 
the  tide. 

The  abdars  were  carrying  round  trays  of  whisky-and- 


14  ABDICATION 

soda  in  champagne  glasses.  Thompsonpur  had  evolved 
this  system  of  the  pau,  or  quarter-peg,  by  which  one 
could  drink  many  times  between  sunset  and  dinner- 
time. Certain  old  stagers  were  already  ensconced 
in  their  accustomed  arm-chairs  and  hailed  everybody 
who  came  into  the  room  :  "  Have  a  'pau.  Have  a 
pau.  Abdar,  two  more,  three  more,  four  more  pans." 
The  new-comer  would  be  drawn  into  one  of  the  circles 
and  in  his  turn  would  order  paus  all  round.  And  so 
the  groups  swelled  and  multipHed  and  split  up  and 
sorted  themselves.  A  few  would  drop  away  to  play 
bridge  or  pool,  or  to  read  La  Vie  or  The  Morning  Post. 
Others  who,  after  playing  some  ball  game,  had  washed 
and  invested  themselves  in  white  evening  dress,  would 
stay  on  and  talk,  disjointedly  after  the  manner  of  their 
kind,  until  nine  o'clock,  discussing  horses  or  motors 
or  tennis  or  golf,  deploring  the  good  old  days,  and  dis- 
covering again  how  Government  had  ceased  to  govern 
and  how  everything  and  everybody  was  going  to  the 
dogs.  Political  discussions  generally  began  and  ended 
here.  The  meaning  of  the  Reforms  was  but  dimly 
apprehended.  It  would  be  too  painful  to  pull  aside 
the  curtain;  if,  indeed,  things  had  gone  as  far  as  the 
staging  of  them.  The  reactionary  element  in  Thomp- 
sonpur felt  that  they  had  played  their  part  when  they 
had  damned  the  Secretary  of  State,  and  expressed 
a  pious  hope  that  he  might  be  physically  involved 
in  the  debris  he  was  pulling  down  about  their  ears — 
hard  workers,  disinterested,  giving  their  best  as  a 
matter  of  course  and  expecting  no  thanks  for  it,  yet 
utterly  incapable  of  getting  inside  an  Indian's  skin 
and  seeing  his  point  of  view.  Nationalists  were  ana- 
thema to  them,  and  talk  of  Swaraj, ^  on  the  immediate 
1  Self-government. 


THE   *  HARTAL'  15 

horizon,  sedition.  Not  that  there  were  wanting 
thoughtful  folk  in  the  club  who  were  earnestly  scheming 
how  to  adjust  themselves  and  the  machinery  of  adminis- 
tration to  the  new  order.  Riley  noticed  at  least  two 
of  them  at  the  bar.  He  also  noted  the  absence  of 
youth.  The  younger  generation  of  Thompsonpur 
were  mostly  in  the  Gymkhana,  dancing.  Someone 
had  observed  that  they  looked  more  tired  than  their 
seniors,  though  they  were  certainly  untroubled  by 
pohtical  cares  and  were  always  ready  to  dance  to  a 
gramophone,  after  their  solemn  fashion,  if  there  were 
no  band.  If  they  toiled  and  spun,  it  was  without 
zeal,  yet  they  get  through  their  work  somehow.  As 
for  the  dispensations  of  hfe,  they  let  nothing  go  by; 
they  took  what  came  to  their  hand  and  consumed  it 
joylessly. 

As  his  eyes  explored  the  hall  in  search  of  good- 
fellowship  they  fell  upon  the  ample  form  of  Skene 
filling  the  most  spacious  arm-chair.  Riley  pushed 
the  door  open  and  approached  him  from  beliind, 
feeling  at  least  five  years  younger  as  he  smote  his  old 
friend  on  the  shoulder.  Skene  caught  his  forearm 
and  drew  him  down  gently  into  the  chair  by  his  side. 
Riley  felt  as  if  he  were  being  lowered  into  it  by  a  crane. 
The  placid  strength  of  the  man,  his  quiet  responsive- 
ness, that  unexpected  rumble  of  a  laugh,  that  seemed 
to  shake  his  whole  frame  though  it  proceeded  from  him 
automatically,  without  visible  effort,  dehghted  Riley. 
He  liked  Skene  better  than  anyone  in  Thompsonpur. 
His  benedictory  "  young  Riley  "  warmed  him. 

Hill  and  Bolton,  the  two  other  men  at  the  table, 
echoed  Skene's  "  young  Riley,"  though  a  little  quizzi- 
cally. Riley  with  his  quick  sensitiveness  detected  a 
note  of  irony  in  the  intonation  of  their  greeting,  a  more 


16  ABDICATION 

qualified  acceptance.  He  saw  himself  as  he  appeared 
in  their  eyes,  his  errors  in  conformity,  the  kinks  in 
him  to  be  straightened  out,  the  excrescences  to  be 
smoothed  and  flattened  down. 

'*  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  you  were  coming?  "  he 
asked  Skene.  ''When  did  you  leave  Gandeshwar? 
Have  you  come  about  Banarsi  Das?  " 

*'  No,  young  Riley.  One  greater  than  he  has  called 
me.    Even  the  Lat  Sahib." 

"Haven't  you  heard,  yoimg  Riley?  And  you  a 
newspaper  man.  Skene  is  our  new  D.P.I.  The  reporter 
of  The  Standard  is  waiting  outside.  You  must  get  in 
your  biographical  sketch  first.  Where's  Who's  Who  ? 
Publications,  "  Misogyny,"  "  Banting,"  "  From  Bar- 
barism to  Babuism,"  Clubs,  The  AthencBum,  and  the 
"  Thompsonpur  Pig  and  Whistle,"  Recreation,  **  The 
Corruption  of  Youth."  Good  old  Skene.  Abdar, 
four  more  pans." 

The  bald-headed,  eye-glassed,  quizzical  Hill  was  in 
form.    Exchange  had  gone  up  to  one-and-eight. 

"  But  who  is  Banarsi  Das  ?  "  asked  Bolton. 

"  Barnasi  Das  is  a  young  revolutionist  Skene  is 
interested  in." 

"  He  turns  them  out  by  the  dozen,"  said  Hill. 

"By  the  way,  have  you  heard  about  Gandhi?" 
Riley  asked. 

"  Now  we  are  up-to-date,  young  Riley.  You  will 
have  to  decide  between  him  and  Skene  for  precedence 
to-morrow." 

"  I  was  in  the  city  an  hour  ago.  Complete  hartal 
in  ten  minutes.  They  threw  brickbats  at  me.  I 
was  glad  to  get  out." 

"  Young  Riley  been  studying  the  psychology  of 
the  Indian  masses.    We  will  have  Thompsonpur  in 


THE   aiARTAL'  17 

The  Quarterly,  '  The  Political  Sensitiveness  of  an  Indian 
City,'  by  Brian  Riley.     Did  they  hit  you?  " 

"  What  does  Gandhi  think  he  is  out  for?  "  Bolton 
asked  in  the  detached  academic  voice  of  the  Secretariat. 

"  He's  out  for  himself,  of  course.  The  man's  a  prize 
charlatan." 

Riley  surveyed  Hill's  bald  pate  and  colourless  eyes 
with  tired  contempt.  "  No  wonder  they  hate  us," 
he  thought,  and  he  was  tempted  to  say  so.  But  Skene, 
to  whom  the  face  of  his  young  friend  was  an  open  book, 
intervened  to  avert  controversy.  "  Gandhi  is  out  for 
Swaraj,"  he  said.  "  He  does  not  think  we  are  doling 
it  out  quick  enough."     It  came  better  from  Skene. 

Riley,  however,  would  not  be  side-tracked.  "  Have 
you  ever  met  Gandhi?  "  he  asked  Hill. 

"  No,  I  haven't.  But  I  know  his  kind.  He  is 
like  a  mischievous  monkey  on  a  tea-table.  He  upsets 
everything  and  doesn't  even  get  away  with  the  cream." 

Bolton  blinked  at  the  vulgar  metaphor. 

"  I  gather,"  he  ventured  obliquely  at  Riley,  *'that 
Government  has  never  set  its  face  against  Con-stit-ut- 
i-on-al  agitation."  Bolton  was  incapable  of  slurring 
one  of  the  six  syllables  of  "  constitutional." 

Hill's  directness  was  relatively  refreshing.  "  You 
don't  imagine,  young  Riley,  that  if  Gandhi  were  to 
upset  our  apple-cart  he  could  run  his  own  show  ?  " 

"  I  don't.  But  I  can  imagine  him  wanting  to.  And 
I  can  imagine  that  you  or  I,  if  we  were  under-dogs, 
might  kick  a  little,  and  if  we  unseated  the  bureau- 
crats  " 

**  Metaphors,  Riley.  Soul  of  The  Quarterly  !  Have 
it  one  way,  horse  or  dog." 

"  Well,  we  wouldn't  worry  much  what  sort  of  a  mess 
came  of  it  so  long  as  we  were  left  to  muddle  along  in  our 
c 


18  ABDICATION 

own  way.  I  can't  forget  that  Hun  policeman  I  used 
to  see  in  my  nightmares  at  the  comer  of  Piccadilly. 
I  almost  felt  him  in  April  '15.  In  April  '18  he  filled 
the  pavement.  I  couldn't  squeeze  in  between  him 
and  the  wall." 

"  There  is  no  analogy." 

"  There  never  is,"  Riley  exploded,  looking  fiercely 
at  Hill.  The  other  two  regarded  him  uncomfortably. 
"  Young  Riley  "  was  so  terribly  in  earnest.  He  would 
like  to  have  added,  "  Why  can't  you  be  honest  with 
yourself?  A  little  imagination.  Other  people  have 
feelings  like  us.  But  you  bureaucrats  never  look  at 
facts.  Your  vision  is  bounded  by  convenience.  Nothing 
contrary  to  the  accepted  decencies  and  traditions  has 
any  real  existence  for  you.  You  can't  see,  or  sym- 
pathise with,  anything  that  does  not  square  with  your 
comfort.     Yet  you  think  you  are  honest." 

"  There  never  is  any  analogy,"  he  repeated.  "  Or 
rather  you  refuse  to  see  any." 

"  Ghost  of  Thompson,"  exclaimed  Hill.  "  I  believe 
young  Riley  is  going  to  whitewash  Gandhi  in  the 
Gazette." 

"  It  is  inconceivable  to  me,"  objected  the  Secretariat, 
"  that  you  can  justify  this  agitation." 

"  I  am  not  justifying  it.    I  am  explaining  it." 

"  Our  Aryan  brother  has  not  the  shadow  of  a  griev- 
ance now  we  have  given  him  the  Reforms.  What  would 
he  have  said  to  the  Montagu  scheme  three  years  ago  ?  " 

Riley  was  reminded  of  the  lady,  mildly  interested  in 
politics,  who  had  consulted  him  on  the  P.  and  0.  coming 
out. 

"  But  now  they  are  going  to  have  the  Reforms  they 
will  be  satisfied,  won't  they?  "  she  asked.  Riley  had 
not  been  sufficiently  reassuring. 


THE   'HARTAL'  19 

"  Not  satisfied  !  Huge  chunks  of  liberty  thrown 
at  them.    What  wolves  !  " 

"  What  I  should  like  to  know,"  said  Skene,  *'  is 
exactly  how  much  they  believe  of  these  rumours. 
I  would  give  a  good  deal  to  see  the  British  Raj  through 
the  eyes  of  Banarsi  Das." 

Riley  thought  he  could  see  Banarsi  Das'  bogey 
personij&ed  in  Hill.  He  even  pursued  the  image  in  its 
physical  outline.  "  Hill's  head  is  like  a  turnip,"  he 
thought,  "  in  shape  and  complexion.  A  turnip  lantern 
would  not  be  a  very  far-fetched  simile.  Only  the 
candle  in  it  shines  through  the  pores  of  the  skin  and 
not  through  the  eyes." 

"  I  think  I  understand  what  these  extremists  feel," 
he  said,  unconsciously  staring  at  Hill  as  he  concluded 
his  hostile  review  of  his  physiognomy.  "  Or  rather, 
what  they  have  made  themselves  feel,  and  it  comes 
to  the  same  thing.  Put  it  in  our  own  bat,^  and  it  runs 
somehow  like  this  :  *  We  have  stuck  it  out.  You've 
bled  us  white.  We  have  played  the  game.  And  now 
when  it  is  all  over  and  we  expect  peace,  confidence, 
concessions,  rewards,  you  have  given  us  the  Rowlatt 
Act.'" 

"  But  we  haven't  bled  them  white.  And  the  Rowlatt 
Act  does  not  touch  their  lives." 

"  I  know.  The  Rowlatt  Act  is  only  a  symbol, 
but  they  have  twisted  a  tissue  of  lies  out  of  it.  If 
it  hadn't  been  the  Rowlatt  Act  it  would  have  been 
something  else.  The  tragic  thing  is  they  are  deter- 
mined to  hate  us." 

"  And  what's  your  remedy?  " 

"  We've  got  to  make  them  trust  us." 

"  And  how  will  you  do  that  ?  " 
1  Language.^ 


20  ABDICATION 

"  One  way  would  be  to  let  them  run  their  own 
army.  They  will  never  be  capable  of  self-government 
until  they  are  capable  of  defending  themselves." 

"  Incidentally  you  would  give  them  the  opportunity 
of  cutting  our  throats  in  the  progress." 

"  We'll  have  to  take  the  risk.  If  we  are  sincere  we 
must  trust  them  and  go  the  whole  way.  If  we  are 
not  sincere,  then  the  sooner  we  clear  out  of  the  country 
the  better." 

"  Good  God  !  "  Hill  gasped.  "  This  beats  Gandhi. 
The  man's  a  defeatist.  Ghost  of  Thompson !  An 
anti-British  firebrand  in  the  editorial  chair  of  The 
Thompsonpiiv  Gazette.*' 

He  rose  wearily  and  drifted  to  the  reading-room, 
remembering  that  he  had  not  seen  last  week's  Capital. 
Bolton  was  speechless.  He  left  the  table  without  a 
word  and  followed  Hill.  Between  them  they  drafted  a 
letter  of  protest  to  the  Directors,  pointing  out  Riley's 
unfitness  to  edit  the  Gazette. 

Skene  and  Riley  were  left  alone.  "  Abdar,"  Skene 
called,  "  two  more  pans.''  He  admitted  his  young 
friend's  courage  but  deplored  his  want  of  discretion. 
"  Now,  tell  me,"  he  said,  "  exactly  what  you  mean. 
I  am  not  quite  sure  that  I  agree  with  your  panacea. 
You  say  they  don't  trust  us,  but  can  we  trust  them  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  not.  Still  we  are  pledged  to  self-govern- 
ment and  we  have  got  to  see  it  through.  They  must 
have  their  own  organisations  of  self-defence.  Other- 
wise the  scheme  means  nothing ;  it  is  mere  camouflage. 
Votes  do  not  give  liberty  to  an  unarmed  people." 

"  They  would  kill  us  off  first,  and  then  begin  mas- 
sacring themselves." 

"  We  can't  have  it  both  ways.  If  we  are  sincere 
about  giving  them  self-government  we  must  act  as 


THE   *  HARTAL'  21 

if  we  believed  in  it.  You  will  never  get  the  Indian 
to  believe  that  he  is  a  free  man  until  you  trust  him 
with  arms.  This  scheme  of  modified  Swaraj  under 
an  alien  military  administration  won't  deceive  anyone. 
We  might  as  well  say  to  them,  '  When  your  hearts 
and  natures  are  changed  we  will  return  what  we  have 
taken  from  you.  When  the  impossible  has  become 
possible  we  will  deal  it  out  to  you  joyously,  bountifully, 
with  both  hands.'  " 

"  Now  you  are  talking  like  a  leading  article.  For 
Heaven's  sake  don't  put  that  in  the  Gazette,  young 
Riley.  Your  Swadeshi  army  is  all  very  well  on  paper, 
but  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  we  cannot  trust 
them." 

"  If  we  cannot  trust  them  there  are  only  two  things 
to  do.  Either  we  must  clear  out  of  India  and  take  our 
army  with  us,  or  we  must  drop  all  talk  of  Swaraj, 
and  hold  the  country  by  armed  force.  Then  what  of 
the  pledge  ?  Even  if  the  Home  Government  consented 
to  turning  the  country  into  an  armed  camp  it  would 
only  be  for  a  year  or  two.  The  masses  are  already 
being  taught  to  hate  us.  The  nationahst  leaders  will 
get  at  the  army  next.    After  that  the  deluge." 

"  You  do  not  think  about  our  responsibility  to  the 
masses,"  Skene  said,  and  refused  to  be  drawn  further 
into  politics.  He  saw  in  Riley's  attitude  the  reverse 
side  of  defeatism,  a  kind  of  deranged  chivalry.  He  had 
to  remind  himself  sometimes  of  his  young  friend's  rare 
sincerity  and  independence  of  thought,  to  avoid  saying 
things  that  might  hurt  him.  Besides,  one  could  not 
reconcile  defeatism  with  a  bar  to  the  D.S.O.  and  a 
Military  Cross.  He  was  weary  to  death  of  the  racial 
question  and  felt  that  he  would  be  sick  and  giddy  if  he 
let  his  mind  revolve  any  longer  in  the  vicious  circle. 


22  ABDICATION 

He  leant  back  in  his  deep  chair,  still  and  silent,  in  a 
state  of  abstraction  which  Riley  had  come  to  define 
as  "  a  Skene-like  trance,'*  as  if  suddenly  isolated,  very 
placid  to  the  outward  view,  though  his  fixed  gaze 
and  the  clouds  of  tobacco-smoke  which  he  emitted  with 
the  sequence  of  rhythm  betrayed  inward  controversy. 

Riley  felt  that  it  would  be  an  intrusion  to  speak 
to  him.  He  put  the  case  to  himself  for  the  hundredth 
time,  his  mind  revolving  like  a  squirrel,  seeking  a  way 
out,  but  brought  up  by  the  bars  at  each  end  of  the  cage. 
What  is  to  be  done  ?  We  must  either  go  back  on  our 
word,  or  betray  the  masses  who  still  believe  in  us. 
Government  in  its  attempt  to  avoid  either  evil  is  falling 
into  both.  Why  cannot  they  look  facts  in  the  face? 
The  nose  of  bureaucracy  is  glued  down  to  files.  Simla 
has  not  got  the  pluck  of  a  weevil.  All  they  care  about 
is  appearances,  making  a  case  for  themselves,  carrying 
on  a  little  bit  longer.  They  have  no  contact  with 
reality,  never  had  any.  Not  one  of  them  has  the  imagi- 
nation of  a  louse.  The  Home  Government  has  abdi- 
cated. Why  cannot  the  Government  of  India  recognise 
it  and  let  the  people  see  that  we  are  really  handing 
over?  Instead  they  stand  on  the  brink  shivering, 
afraid  to  take  the  plunge.  Conciliation  by  driblets, 
each  new  concession  wrung  out  of  them  by  agitation 
and  conceded  by  fear.  Naturally  the  impression  is 
that  we  mean  to  hang  on  to  the  substance  as  long  as 
we  can  and  put  them  off  with  the  image  or  shadow. 
They  do  not  believe  in  us.  Why  should  they?  We 
do  not  trust  them,  and  we  are  not  even  honest  with 
ourselves.  Yet  there  is  not  a  soul  in  this  club  who 
understands  Gandhi's  point  of  view. 

"  Do  not  brood,  young  Riley."  Skene  had  come 
out  of  his  clouds  to  wake  him  from  his  troubled  reverie. 


THE   'HARTAL'  28 

"  I  wish  you  were  not  so  politically-minded.  Give 
the  city  a  rest  and  go  to  the  villages.  You  will  see 
our  prestige  is  not  so  dead  as  you  think.  My  college 
students  are  most  of  them  sensible  lads.  But  damn 
politics  !     Come  and  have  a  rubber  of  bridge." 

But  politics  was  not  to  be  exorcised.  Riley  might 
have  allowed  himself  to  be  detached  if  he  had  not 
looked  up  and  seen  Dean  standing  at  the  door  of  the 
bar.  Everyone  was  asking  the  policeman  about  the 
hartal.  There  had  not  been  much  excitement  in  the 
city,  he  told  them.  People  had  seemed  rather  bored 
with  it.  Some  of  the  shopkeepers  had  put  up  their 
shutters  sulkily.  They  did  not  like  closing;  yet  not 
one  of  them  had  dared  to  show  indifference.  Dean 
had  been  amused  at  their  tired  assumption  of  woe. 
He  described  a  hunniah  locking  up  his  chests,  and 
then  his  door,  with  deliberate  irony,  like  an  actor 
forced  to  play  a  part  that  irritated  him.  The  man 
had  put  the  key  of  his  safe  into  his  pocket  with  a  stage 
gesture,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Well  then,  if  you  will  have 
it,  go  on  with  your  silly  hartal.  No  one  can  say  that 
I  stand  aside.  But  if  God  does  not  give  you  more  sense, 
I  hope  the  Sircar  may  whip  it  into  you." 

The  impression  Dean  gave  was  of  a  somewhat  per- 
functory demonstration.  '*  Of  course  there  were  the 
usual  firebrands,"  he  added,  "  jumping  about  and 
working  themselves  up  into  a  frenzy  with  an  excited 
mob  at  their  heels,  hoping  for  loot.  Barkatullah  was 
one  of  them.  He  waved  a  black  handkerchief  on  a 
stick.  One  of  my  sergeants  heard  him  howling  out, 
'  Handcuffs  are  ornaments  for  men.  A  nation  that 
forgets  its  martyrs  is  dead.'  " 

Riley  told  Dean  that  he  was  on  his  way  to  Barka- 
tullah's  office  when  he  ran  into  the  hartal. 


24  ABDICATION 

"  You  would  not  have  found  him  at  home,"  Dean 
said.  "  The  Roshni  Press  was  closed  down  this  morn- 
ing.    Barkatullah's  security  has  been  confiscated.** 

Skene  had  a  picture  of  Banarsi  Das  again  adrift. 
He  saw  him  on  the  skirts  of  the  hartal,  a  pathetic  figure, 
aping  defiance,  hugging  his  vanity  with  both  hands.  A 
little  uncertain  of  it  perhaps,  and  conscious  of  the 
disparity  of  the  image  he  carried  about  with  him  and 
its  market  worth.  Skene  could  see,  through  Banarsi 
Das'  eyes,  a  perspective  of  petitions,  chairs  in  verandahs, 
admittance  after  long  waiting  into  offices,  the  "  sun- 
dried  bureaucrat  "  inside  under  the  punkah,  physically 
hemmed  in  with  a  fortification  of  files,  and  morally 
inaccessible  by  reason  of  his  thick  skin  and  his  inability 
to  appreciate  what  Banarsi  Das  had  himself  described 
in  more  than  one  application  as  "  a  winning  personality 
and  a  commanding  appearance." 

"  Do  not  forget,"  Skene  reminded  Riley.  "  Banarsi 
Das  is  now  on  your  staff.  He  has  enough  English 
for  proof-reading,  possibly  too  much.  You  will  get 
plenty  of  amusement  out  of  him,  if  nothing  else." 

Here  Dean  was  detached  by  Parkinson,  the  Chief 
Secretary,  a  rare  visitant  at  the  bar,  evidently  drawn 
there  to-night  in  search  of  information.  Parkinson 
emerged  from  his  office  at  least  half  an  hour  after 
everyone  else  had  finished  playing  games.  No,  he 
would  not  have  a  pan  or  a  vermouth.  The  care 
entrenched  on  his  high  brow  rebuked  Dean*s  idle  oifer. 
Riley  watched  him  nod  his  head  mechanically  as  he 
noted  one  point  after  another  in  Dean's  narrative, 
and  he  knew  that  each  nod  registered  a  paragraph  in 
a  mental  file.  He  has  got  it  all  right,  Riley  thought 
to  himself.  He  will  have  it  on  paper  if  he  has  to  com- 
pose the  file  in  his  sleep.     It  will  be  all  there,  what 


THE   *  HARTAL'  25 

they  said  and  did,  all  the  political  catchwords  and 
inflammatory  speeches,  nothing  omitted  save  the  essence 
and  soul  of  the  thing.  Parkinson  would  not  have 
the  ghost  of  an  idea  what  anyone  of  them  were  feeling. 
He  knew  nothing  of  men.  To  him  Gandhi  was  a 
seditionist,  BarkatuUah  was  a  seditionist,  men  of  the 
same  category,  whom  it  was  Government's  business 
to  prosecute.  He  saw  no  difference  between  them  save 
that  one  was  more  dangerous  than  the  other.  Riley 
would  have  told  him  that  Gandhi  was  an  avatar, 
a  leader  of  men,  an  embodied  protest  quivering  with 
humiliation  at  being  a  subject  of  an  aUen  race;  and 
Barkatullah  a  vulgar  tub-thumper,  a  notoriety  seeker, 
out  for  himself,  an  exploiter  of  nationalism  for  his  own 
profit. 

"  The  only  thing  to  do  with  agitators  like  Gandhi 
and  Barkatullah,"  Parkinson  was  saying,  and  Riley 
overhearing  him  was  tempted  to  bellow  his  scorn  in 
head-lines  :  "  Gandhi  and  Barkatullah  !  Garibaldi 
and  Guy  Fawkes !  Mind  and  Matter !  Mercury 
and  Mud  !  "  But  he  only  gasped,  '*  Poor  old  Par- 
kinson." 

Skene  heard  him.  "  Poor  old  Parkinson,"  he 
repeated.  "  A  big  brain,  but  a  corpse.  If  he  had  not 
been  dead  for  at  least  five  years  he  would  be  the  Lieu- 
tenant-Governor of  the  New  Province." 

The  Chief  Secretary  left  the  bar  with  an  almost 
conscious  aloofness.  Riley  thought  he  looked  more 
melancholy  and  funereal  than  ever.  He  muttered 
to  Skene,  "  A  mute  at  the  obsequies  of  an  empire." 

Dean,  released  from  his  cross-examination,  joined 
them  at  their  little  table  as  Riley  was  speaking. 
"  According  to  old  Parkinson,"  he  said,  "  the  procession 
to  the  grave  has  already  started.    There's  been  a 


26  ABDICATION 

rising  at  Amritsar  and  shooting  at  Lahore.  At  Am- 
ritsar  they've  been  kilKng  EngUshmen  and  burning 
them  in  kerosene  oil  and  knocking  lady  missionaries 
on  the  head.  They  say  a  Miss  Sherwood  is  dead  or 
dying.  They've  looted  all  the  banks  and  killed  the 
managers,  burnt  the  churches  and  destroyed  the  post 
offices  and  telegraph  offices.  At  six  o'clock  the  city 
was  in  the  hands  of  the  mob,  and  it  was  touch  and  go 
whether  they  broke  through  into  the  civil  lines." 

It  became  known  that  Dean  was  the  repository  of 
news.  As  he  spoke  half  a  dozen  men  crowded  to  his 
table.  Hill  and  Bolton  joined  the  group  again  with 
Galton,  the  A.D.C.,  who  had  the  last  official  messages. 
"  The  telegraph  wires  are  all  cut,"  Galton  told  them. 
"  Lahore  is  isolated  except  by  wireless.  They  are 
sacking  and  burning  railway  stations  all  over  the  place 
and  pulling  up  the  rails.  It  looks  like  a  general 
rising." 

Osborne,  the  G.S.O.I.,  said  that  a  Gurkha  havildar 
had  told  him  at  half-past  six  that  there  had  been  a 

mutiny  in  Lahore  cantonments.    The Punjabis 

had  despatched  their  British  officers  and  were  marching 
on  the  city.  "  How  the  deuce  do  they  pick  up  these 
rumours?  We've  only  just  heard  about  Amritsar 
ourselves." 

"The  Punjab  is  lucky  to  have  O'Dwyer,"  Hill 
remarked.  "  He  is  the  last  man  to  stand  any  damned 
nonsense.     But  what  about  the  troops  here  ?  " 

"  Our  troops  are  all  right,"  Osborne  said.  "  They'll 
soon  wipe  up  the  riff-raff  if  there  is  any  trouble  in  the 
bazar." 

Bolton  asked  Dean  if  there  was  much  excitement  in 
the  city.  Dean  did  not  expect  trouble.  ''  Thompson- 
pur  is  too  busy  making  money,"  he  said.    "  If  it  were 


THE   *  HARTAL'  27 

a  little  poorer  or  a  little  more  prosperous,  it  would  be 
more  dangerous." 

"  But,  of  course,  if  the  Punjab  goes "  Hill  ejacu- 
lated. Then  he  caught  Riley's  eye.  "  And  this  is 
the  crowd  you  want  to  arm  !  "  he  added. 

Riley  returned  his  stare.  He  said  nothing,  but  he 
felt  that  fathoms  had  been  added  to  the  gulf  that 
divided  him  from  nearly  every  soul  in  the  room. 


CHAPTER  II 

BANARSI   DAS 


Banarsi  Das  sat  alone  in  the  Roshni  office  composing 
articles  that  were  never  published.  Barkatullah  was 
on  tour  in  the  New  Province  and  the  Punjab  seeking 
aid  from  the  patriotic  for  the  revival  of  his  Press.  He 
had  foreseen  that  the  temporary  extinction  of  The 
Roshni  would  be  no  unmixed  evil ;  indeed,  his  provoca- 
tion of  the  official  extinguisher  had  been  deliberate, 
though  he  had  not  quite  realised  how  the  glamour 
of  persecution  would  irradiate  him.  Parkinson  and 
his  undiscerning  school  were  not  the  only  folk  who  spoke 
of  him  now  in  the  same  breath  with  Gandhi. 

In  Barkatullah's  inflammatory  articles  in  The 
Roshni  the  incitement  to  bloodshed  had  been  but 
thinly  veiled.  He  had  taken  care  to  be  offensive 
enough  to  provoke  confiscation,  yet  not  so  offensive 
as  to  endanger  the  security  of  his  own  person.  He  had 
steered  a  happy  course.  Now  he  was  a  popular  hero. 
He  had  earned  the  crown  of  martyrdom,  and  none 
knew  better  than  he  how  to  turn  a  halo  to  profit. 
The  subscriptions  he  had  collected  already  amounted 
to  twice  the  sum  needed  for  the  new  security,  and  no 
one  would  dream  of  asking  to  see  the  account.  Prob- 
ably it  never  entered  anyone's  head  that  Barkatullah 

28 


BANARSI   DAS  29 

was  not  making  a  good  thing  out  of  it.  Just  as  in  the 
days  when  The  RosJini  first  shone  on  the  horizon  of 
Gopalpura,  nobody  troubled  about  what  came  of  the 
fund  collected  by  the  editor,  and  contributed  by  pious 
Moslems,  in  aid  of  the  wives  and  orphans  of  Turks 
murdered  by  the  truculent  Armenians  in  AnatoUa. 
In  Gopalpura,  when  the  cause  is  patriotism,  one  pays 
one's  mite  and  automatically  becomes  a  patriot.  No 
true  nationahst  questions  the  motives  of  another. 
Ideals  must  not  be  smirched,  not  on  paper  at  any  rate. 
It  does  not  do  to  drag  one's  fellow-patriots  before  the 
tribunal  of  a  superior  alien  code,  or  to  provide  a  text 
for  the  irony  of  The  Thompsonpur  Gazette.  Besides, 
what  does  a  little  leakage  matter  ?  It  is  by  giving  that 
one  obtains  merit.  The  main  thing  is  to  appear 
selfiessly  devoted  to  the  Turk.  So  when  Shans-ud- 
din,  a  rival  editor,  unkindly  suggested  that  the  Roshni 
fund  had  never  benefited  the  widows  and  orphans  in 
Anatolia  for  whom  it  was  intended,  he  was  howled 
down.  His  patriotism  was  impugned.  From  the  day 
of  his  protest  he  began  to  lose  in  influence  and  impor- 
tance. The  circulation  of  his  paper.  The  Aj,  dwindled. 
The  Roshni,  in  the  meanwhile,  prospered;  its  rays 
illumined  an  ever-widening  field,  penetrating  far 
beyond  the  New  Province  and  the  Punjab. 

BarkatuUah  had  suffered  what  he  imagined  was  an 
injustice  at  the  hands  of  Government,  and  now  he 
could  indulge  his  personal  resentment  and  his  vanity 
at  the  same  time.  He  was  becoming  a  man  of  con- 
sequence. Wherever  he  halted  a  small  crowd  met  him 
at  the  railway  station  and  he  was  conducted  by  a  band 
of  volunteers,  never  more  than  eight  or  nine,  to  the 
house  of  some  local  magnate,  generally  a  pleader. 
It  is  true  that  the  volunteers  did  not  march  in  step, 


30  ABDICATION 

that  they  were  ragged  and  unkempt  and  had  no  kind 
of  uniform,  and  instead  of  arms  carried  poles  over  their 
shoulders  with  pennons  emblazoned  with  the  star  and 
crescent,  all  sloping  at  different  angles.  It  was  a 
demonstration  that  might  have  been  dispersed  by  a 
single  policeman.  Nevertheless  it  was  comforting  to 
pride.  Vindictiveness  had  the  sanction  of  patriotism. 
Barkatullah  woke  up  every  morning  with  a  sense  of 
moral  worth.  He  had  also  the  material  satisfaction  of 
the  subscriptions.  It  is  not  often  that  virtue  is 
remunerative. 

Banarsi  Das  had  none  of  Barkatullah's  consolations. 
He  sat  in  the  shuttered  office  of  The  Roshni,  inarticulate. 
These  were  dark  days.  His  friend,  Amba  Pershad, 
when  he  visited  the  Roshni  to  borrow  BarkatuUah's 
Who  is  Who  in  India,  found  the  sub-editor  in  deep 
dejection.  Piles  of  manuscript  littered  his  desk, 
written  in  that  round  disarming  handwriting  which 
Skene  knew  so  well.  Banarsi  Das  rose  to  meet  Amba 
Pershad.  "  I  cannot  utter,"  he  said  dolefully,  pointing 
at  his  unpublished  articles  with  a  pathetic  effort  to 
appear  j aunty  and  self-assured.  Amba  Pershad  fancied 
he  saw  the  track  of  a  tear  under  the  rim  of  his  spectacles. 
Banarsi  Das  threw  his  Httle  round  cap  on  the  mountain 
of  papers  in  which  his  eloquence  lay  obscured.  His 
eye  brightened  at  the  prospect  of  declaiming  a  passage 
or  two  to  his  friend.  **  The  British  will  soon  be  crossing 
the  sea,"  he  said.  "  You  have  read  what  the  Satans 
have  done  at  Gujranwala?  They  are  not  long  for 
Bharat  Mata." 

The  Punjab  atrocities  were  the  theme  of  the  hour. 
Nothing  else  was  talked  about  in  Gopalpura.  The 
Rowlatt  Act  and  even  Gandhi's  arrest  were  forgotten. 
The  Lahore  editors  were  muzzled  under  a  sterner 


BANARSI  DAS  81 

regime,  but  in  the  New  Province  authority  had  set 
its  face  against  repression.  Barkatullah  was  the 
unfortunate  exception .  ' '  They  have  ceased  to  govern , ' ' 
Bolton  said.  "  The  Press  has  complete  licence  and 
can  be  as  inflammatory  as  it  chooses."  And  never 
was  there  such  fuel  for  a  blaze.  On  April  12th  news 
of  the  massacre  in  the  JaUianwala  Bagh  at  Amritsar 
reached  the  city.  A  few  days  afterwards  The  Ittihad 
published  a  story  which  was  not  easily  credited,  but 
which  everybody  hoped  was  true.  General  Dyer, 
it  said,  had  ordered  the  people  of  Amritsar  to  crawl  on 
their  bellies  like  serpents,  in  order  to  humiUate  the 
Indian  race.  Then  one  heard  of  the  whipping  of 
students,  the  handcuffing  of  lawyers,  the  internment 
of  patriots  who  were  "  rotting  in  gaol."  Now  it  was 
the  bombing  of  the  innocents  at  Gujranwala.  Amba 
Pershad  had  read  it  in  The  Aj.  Happier  journals  were 
publishing  the  details  of  the  Punjab  "  atrocities " 
every  day.  Only  The  Roshni  was  extinguished.  It 
was  gaUing  to  Banarsi  Das  that  the  beacon  alone  should 
be  unlighted.  Lesser  luminaries  shed  their  flickering 
beams,  while  the  naked  light  of  truth,  which  should 
have  been  intensive  and  bhnding,  was  darkened  by  the 
shutters  put  up  by  the  police.  Not  a  gUmmer  reached 
the  multitude  through  the  chink. 

*' When  is  Barkatullah  coming  back?"  Amba 
Pershad  asked. 

For  a  moment  Banarsi  Das  wished  that  he 
would  come  back,  deposit  the  security  at  once, 
and  start  again.  Then  he  remembered  that  his 
days  in  the  Roshni  oflice  were  numbered,  and  the 
hours,  which  might  be  made  eloquent,  were  shpping 
away. 

"  You  are  leaving  Roshni?''  Amba  Pershad  asked. 


32  ABDICATION 

"  Who  is  Barkatullah  going  to  appoint  as  his  new 
assistant  editor? " 

Banarsi  Das  was  flattered.  Barkatullah  never 
recognised  his  editorial  capacity.  He  referred  to  him 
simply  as  "  my  translator."  As  a  matter  of  fact  very 
little  original  work  by  Banarsi  Das  had  appeared  in 
The  Roshni,  and  now  he  had  proved  an  inefficient  trans- 
lator. His  Urdu  was  too  highflown;  it  was  inter- 
spersed with  rare  Persian  and  Arabic  words ;  he  could 
not  resist  the  dazzling  trope ;  he  let  himself  be  carried 
away  in  a  flood  of  rhetoric.  Barkatullah  wanted  a 
man  who  was  capable  of  rendering  a  column  of  news 
from  The  Thompsonpiir  Gazette  in  language  which  could 
be  understood  in  the  bazar.  Banarsi  Das  had  lost 
The  Roshni  many  subscribers.  He  was  too  much  in 
the  clouds  to  promote  sales  or  propaganda. 

"Who  is  Barkatullah  getting?"  Amba  Pershad 
repeated.  "  Did  he  read  my  articles  on  Swaraj  in 
The  Kali  Yuga  ?  " 

Banarsi  Das  looked  at  his  friend  with  suspicion  as 
a  potential  usurper.  Amba  Pershad  commanded  a 
more  biting  pen  even  than  he.  But  he  was  a  Govern- 
ment servant.  He  held  a  pensionable  post  which  he 
was  not  likely  to  give  up.  His  contributions  to  The 
Roshni  were  surreptitious. 

'*  I  do  not  hit  it  off  with  Barkatullah,"  he  explained 
to  Amba  Pershad.  "  I  do  not  know  who  he  is  getting 
to  succeed  me  in  the  assistant  editorial  chair.  By 
comparison  with  me  he  is  a  timid  gentleman.  He  is 
afraid,  when  I  speak  openly  shaming  the  Government, 
because  he  has  not  my  courageous  fortitude.  Besides, 
after  all,  no  doubt  he  has  not  my  literary  abiHties." 

Amba  Pershad  defended  Barkatullah  from  the  charge 
of  timidity.     He  pointed  out  that  he  was  the  only 


BANARSI  DAS  88 

editor  in  Gopalpura  who  had  frightened  the  bastard 
officials  into  confiscating  his  Press. 

"  Oh,  yes !  He  is  clever  no  doubt,"  Banarsi  Das 
hinted  darkly. 

It  was  true  that  Banarsi  Das  was  master  of  a  more 
perfect  courage  at  the  moment  than  Barkatullah  could 
command.  He  would  have  gone  to  gaol  gladly  to  be 
called  a  hero.  The  mountain  of  invective  on  the  ofiice 
table  was  a  proof  of  it.  He  would  have  welcomed  the 
shadow  of  the  police  constable  on  the  stairs  if  he  could 
have  been  proclaimed  to  the  world  as  the  author  of 
the  work.  He  had  long  had  a  vision  of  a  procession 
to  the  Deputy  Commissioner's  ofiice,  himself  the  princi- 
pal figure  in  the  crowd.  The  picture  had  taken  so 
distinct  a  shape  in  his  mind  that  he  lamented  the 
absence  of  chains  and  handcuffs,  a  decoration  denied 
to  poHtical  prisoners.  The  freedom  of  hands  and  feet 
was  altogether  too  unimpressive.  It  marred  the 
sjmibolism  of  his  picture  and  left  him  only  half  a 
martyr.  For  Banarsi  Das,  so  long  as  he  trod  the  clouds, 
was  an  intransigeant.  It  was  only  when  his  feet  touched 
earth  that  he  recognised  his  infirmities.  For  the 
moment  he  was  a  hero  lacking  a  stage.  The  pity  of 
it  was  that  there  was  nobody  to  listen  to  his  heroics. 
Banarsi  Das  felt  that  he  had  surpassed  himself.  Where 
Barkatullah  had  chastised  the  Government  with  whips, 
he  had  laid  about  him  with  scorpions. 

Banarsi  Das  had  begun  his  indictment  in  Urdu  with 
the  vain  hope  that  The  Roshni  might  be  resuscitated, 
and  that  Barkatullah,  converted  by  his  eloquence, 
would  permit  him  to  "  utter."  Then,  finding  Urdu 
inadequate,  he  lapsed  into  English.  The  language 
of  the  oppressor  had  a  fascination  for  Banarsi  Das. 
It  led  him  by  flowery  paths  of  rhetoric  to  eminences 

D 


84  ABDICATION 

to  which  no  indigenous  eloquence  could  aspire.    *'  Give 
me  English  column,"  he  had  implored  BarkatuUah. 
"  The  newspaper  that  is  bilinguous  kills  two  kinds  of 
readers  with  single  stone."    But  the  editor  of  The 
Roshni  had  been  unresponsive.     "He  gave  me  the 
non-posthumous,"  as  Banarsi  Das  put  it.     He  set  his 
face  against  bilingual  experiments.    Banarsi  Das  had 
slain  enough  subscribers  with  the  language  at  his 
command.     In  his  disappointment  he  tried  to  find  vent 
for  his  English  in  The  Gopalpura  Standard,  the  only 
Indian-owned  newspaper  printed  in  EngUsh  in  the  city. 
The  Standard  was  an  institution  of  which  Gopalpura 
was  proud.     It  had  its  own  London  correspondent  and 
subscribed  to  Renter.     It  was  widely  quoted  by  the 
Press  of  Bengal,  Madras  and  Bombay.     Riley  himself 
could  not  compete  with  The  Standard  in  a  political 
leader.    The    editor,    Suresh    Chandra    Chatter ji,    a 
Bengah  who  had  never  left  India,  wrote  better  English 
than  most  English  journalists.    Even  Parkinson  ad- 
mitted the  dignity  and  consistency  of  The  Standard, 
bitter  and  venomous  as  it  was  in  its  attacks  on  "  the 
ahen  bureaucracy."    Chatter  ji  was  a  bit  of  a  recluse, 
and  in  his  way,  something  of  a  seer.    A  genuine  patriot, 
and  a  man  of  principle,  he  was  not  easily  accessible  to 
the  staff  of  scurrilous  and  irresponsible  papers  hke 
The  Ittihad  and  The  Roshni,  who  gave  away  the  cause 
every  day  by  their  crudeness,  inaccuracy  and  violence. 
Beyond  a  letter  airing  some  student's  grievance  which 
The   Standard   had   pubHshed,    the   importunities   of 
Banarsi  Das  had  gained  him  no  admission  into  the 
circle.    His  articles  on  the  Punjab  "  atrocities  "  were 
neither  acknowledged  nor  printed. 

It  became  evident  to  Banarsi  Das  that  if  his  inspired 
work  was  to  secure  the  immortahty  it  deserved,  it 


BANARSI   DAS  85 

could  only  be  through  oral  tradition.  He  caught  at 
Amba  Pershad  as  the  heaven-sent  transmitter.  Pick- 
ing up  his  file  of  manuscript  he  began  to  declaim  rapidly. 
*'  See,"  he  shrilled,  "  what  heinous  and  abominable 
crimes  the  tyrannical  and  blood-sucking  oppressors 
have  perpetrated  in  Punjab."  As  he  spoke  he  fingered 
the  pages  lovingly.  When  a  particular  passage  caught 
his  eye  he  fell  into  recitation.  Amba  Pershad  made 
a  movement  in  his  chair  as  if  to  escape,  but  his 
courtesy  restrained  him.  Banarsi  Das  was  so  terribly 
in  earnest. 

"  Punjab,  the  home  of  lions,"  he  continued,  "  has 
become  hiding-place  of  jackals.  When  the  Punjabis 
have  crawled  on  all  fours,  when  they  have  been 
whipped  on  their  bare  buttocks  in  the  presence  of 
demi-mondaines " — Banarsi  Das  had  consulted  his 
dictionary  of  synonyms  here — "  it  is  useless  to  speak 
of  them  as  men.  Punjabi  heroes,  the  beastly  EngHsh 
have  defiled  your  sacred  home,  the  land  of  the  five 
rivers  where  the  sacred  hymns  of  Vedas  and  the  Holy 
Granth  were  first  chanted.  How  many  hundred  heroes, 
whom  God  made  to  walk  erect,  were  made  to  crawl 
on  their  bellies  hke  serpents.  When  a  usurper  is  in 
one's  house  it  behoves  each  and  every  right-minded  and 
self-respecting  gentleman  to  kick  him  out.  Time  is 
not  now  for  talk.  Swaraj  is  not  to  be  secured  by  begging, 
it  is  the  birthright  of  patriots.  The  haven  of  hberty 
is  to  be  attained  only  by  swimming  through  leagues  of 
blood.  If  courage  is  shown  and  chests  are  exposed  to 
bullets  of  tyrants  success  is  sure." 

Here  Banarsi  Das  paused  with  his  hand  on  his  breast 
and  looked  at  his  friend  for  commendation. 

"  Oh  yes  !  "  Amba  Pershad  remarked  drily.  "  I 
admire  your  composition.    It  is  very  eloquent."    But 


36  ABDICATION 

he  spoke  without  conviction.  His  sympathies  for  the 
moment  were  with  Barkatullah. 

Banarsi  Das  was  disappointed  that  his  friend  was  not 
more  impressed.  But  Amba  Pershad  found  it  difficult 
to  feign  enthusiasm.  What  he  had  hstened  to  was  the 
kind  of  thing  that  was  being  preached  every  day  in  the 
bazar.  Only  Banarsi  Das  had  memorised  the  more 
eloquent  passages  and  embroidered  them  with  his 
text-book  EngHsh. 

He  turned  again  to  the  manuscript.  "  '  Appeal  to 
Punjabi  Brothers '  is  not  half  bad,"  he  said  modestly. 
"  But  after  all  it  is  mere  flea-bite  in  ocean.  Listen  now 
to  my  defamation  of  EngHsh.  You  will  see  I  have 
reached  apogee."  Here  he  picked  up  a  thumbmarked 
sheet  of  the  yellowish  paper  used  in  the  Roshni  office 
and  selected  an  earlier  passage,  written  in  Urdu  when 
he  still  hoped  to  persuade  Barkatullah  to  put  on  the 
true  crown  of  martyrdom. 

"  Punjabis,  shun  all  meetings  with  the  English 
until  you  can  go  with  lathis  in  your  hands.  It  is  sinful 
to  look  now  upon  an  English  face.  We  are  no  longer 
ignorant  children  to  spend  the  happy  years  flying  the 
kite  of  the  Montagu  scheme.  It  was  not  until  the 
empire  was  in  danger  that  the  British  discovered  that 
we  were  brothers  and  fellow-countrymen.  How  do 
they  look  upon  us  now  ?  They  say  that  we  are  black 
men  and  lower  in  the  scale  of  creation  than  they.  But 
who  can  be  lower  than  the  English  flesh-eaters,  wine- 
bibbers  and  ravishers  of  our  women  ?  If  an  English- 
man shoots  an  Indian  and  is  brought  to  court,  he  pleads 
that  the  Indian  resembled  a  black  bear.  India  is  like 
a  lotus  flower  that  has  attracted  many  poisonous 
flies.  Is  it  the  will  of  God  that  Indians  should  remain 
under  the  rule  of  men  who  were  Hke  beasts  roaming  in 


BANARSI  DAS  87 

the  jungle  when  Indians  taught  them  to  wear  clothes 
and  be  civilised?  The  British  claim  that  they  are 
protecting  India  is  false.  Our  own  troops  are  protecting 
us.  The  British  did  not  conquer  India  with  the  sword 
as  the  Muhammadans  did.  They  have  taken  away  our 
arms  and  now  bomb  us  and  shoot  at  us  from  the  air 
in  safety  in  their  aeroplanes.  Even  a  woman  can  worry 
a  caged  lion.  But  the  English  will  not  be  with  us 
long.  Are  we  not  united  under  Gandhi-ji?  A  large 
snake  can  easily  be  killed  when  alone,  but  little  ants 
in  number  can  move  anybody  out  of  bed." 

"  Shabash  !  Banarsi  Das."  Amba  Pershad  broke  in 
with  genuine  commendation.  He  preferred  Banarsi 
Das'  Urdu  to  his  English.  He  had  not  heard  the  snake 
and  the  ant  parable  before.  The  rest  of  the  declama- 
tion was  a  mosaic  of  coloured  scraps  borrowed  from 
the  speeches  of  different  agitators  and  worked  into  a 
pattern.  Very  dear  to  Banarsi  Das  was  the  ominous 
innuendo. 

"  The  English  are  the  elephants,  not  the  sheep,  of 
Christ,"  he  continued.  "  When  an  ant  gets  into  the 
trunk  of  an  elephant,  it  bites  it  and  the  elephant  dies. 
So  also  will  we  bite,  and  the  EngUshmen " 

Here  Banarsi  Das  dropped  his  manuscript  and  looked 
anxiously  at  Amba  Pershad.  His  aposiopesis  was 
effective,  if  unpremeditated.  Somebody  was  coming 
up  the  stairs.  The  sound  of  the  footsteps  was 
unfamiliar  to  Banarsi  Das.  He  was  accustomed  to  a 
light  and  soft  patter  of  feet,  hesitating  sometimes  on 
account  of  the  darkness.  If  there  was  any  noise  on 
the  staircase  it  was  generally  the  khatib's  loose  drag- 
ging slippers  which  tapped  the  stone  at  every  step. 
The  tread  of  this  visitor  was  heavy  and  deliberate; 
he  wore  metal  on  his  soles.    No  Indian  walked  like 


38  ABDICATION 

that  or  wore  such  heavy  boots.  Banarsi  Das  was 
convinced  that  it  was  the  poHce.  "  Feringhi  officer/' 
he  whispered  hoarsely  to  Amba  Pershad  and  began 
bundling  his  manuscript  into  an  almirah,  fear  and  pride 
racing  in  his  heart.  As  the  steps  drew  nearer  pride 
lagged  behind.  The  incentive  to  it  was  soon  stowed 
away  with  the  relics  of  other  lost  causes  on  the  shelves 
of  the  almirah.  The  intruders,  whoever  they  might 
be,  would  find  the  assistant  editor  of  The  Roshni 
seated  at  a  white  unpolished  schoolroom  desk  with  a 
bench  attached  to  it,  looking  very  innocent  and 
submissive. 

A  loud  English  voice  dispelled  all  doubt. 

"  Hullo  !  Banarsi  Das  !   Are  you  still  a  rebel?  *' 

Banarsi  Das  looked  up  and  saw  the  huge  frame  of 
Skene  filling  the  door  at  the  head  of  the  stairs.  He 
remembered  another  occasion  when  his  old  Principal 
had  surprised  and  confounded  him  in  the  act  of  con- 
spiracy. It  was  in  the  boarding-house  of  Gandeshwar 
College  and  Siri  Ram  was  one  of  the  company.  The 
memory  revived  a  sense  of  guilt  and  he  was  a  little 
ashamed  of  it.  He  was  a  little  vexed  and  ashamed  too 
of  the  revival  of  affection  for  his  old  Principal.  There 
was  a  kind  look  in  Skene's  eyes,  and  his  hand  was 
outstretched  in  greeting. 

Banarsi  Das  grasped  it.  Skene  understood  that  the 
almost  jaunty  air  he  adopted  was  intended  to  reconcile 
respect  with  independence.  He  introduced  Banarsi 
Das  to  Riley,  who  had  followed  him  into  the  room. 
Amba  Pershad,  feeling  that  the  Roshni  office  was  not 
the  best  vantage  ground  for  the  introduction  of  a 
subordinate  Government  servant  to  the  head  of  a 
Department,  slipped  quietly  down  the  stairs. 

Banarsi  Das  found  himself  shaking  hands  with  the 


BANARSI  DAS  89 

editor  of  The  Thompsonpur  Gazette,  who  was  glad  to 
meet  a  member  of  his  profession.  He  was  not  proof 
against  this  courtesy. 

*'  It  is  a  long  time  since  we  met,  Banarsi  Das," 
Skene  said.  "  Tell  me  all  about  yourself.  Is  it  true 
that  you  are  leaving  The  Roshni  ?  " 

Banarsi  Das  admitted  that  "  he  did  not  pull  on  with 
Mr.  BarkatuUah."  His  tenure  of  office  was  on  this 
account  precarious. 

"  And  what  are  you  going  to  do?  Are  you  looking 
out  for  work  ?     I  think  Mr.  Riley  has  an  opening " 

Banarsi  Das  did  not  wait  to  hear  the  nature  of  the 
gap  he  was  to  fill.  He  leapt  at  it  blindly.  "  Sir,"  he 
said,  achieving  a  fortuitous  accuracy  of  idiom,  "  I  aspire 
to  commence  author." 

Skene  smiled.  "  I  am  afraid  you  will  find  it  difficult 
to  square  your  political  views  with  the  Gazette,"  he 
said. 

"  Sir,  I  can  contribute.  Thoynpsonpur  Gazette  has 
become  very  liberal  paper  under  Mr.  Riley." 

Riley  explained  that  he  wanted  a  man  who  under- 
stood office  work  and  who  was  also  a  competent  proof- 
reader. 

"  No  doubt  I  am  accomplished  clerk  and  proof- 
reader. But  you  may  try  me  on  editorial  staff.  I  am 
staunch  nationalist,  of  course.  I  spurn  Rowlatt  Act 
and  Punjab  atrocities.  Nevertheless  I  can  be  moderate 
if,  and  when,  benign  Government  showers  blessings." 

Riley  had  no  doubt  that  the  benign  Government 
would  afford  opportunities  for  moderation  in  the  near 
future.  Support  of  the  Reforms,  for  instance,  would 
be  quite  consistent  with  Banarsi  Das'  ardent  national- 
ism. He  even  promised  to  consider  any  contributions 
that  Skene's  young  prot6g6  might  send  in ;  but  it  was 


40  ABDICATION 

a  clerk  he  wanted,  not  an  assistant  editor.  Nevertheless 
Banarsi  Das  was  importunate.  With  the  pertinacity 
of  his  kind  he  refused  to  look  unpleasant  facts  in  the 
face.  Riley  had  to  repeat  two  or  three  times  that  he 
had  no  vacancy  for  him  on  his  editorial  staff. 

In  the  end  Skene  had  to  step  in.  "  You  know, 
Banarsi  Das,"  he  said,  "  you  can't  expect  to  start  at 
the  top  of  the  ladder.  And  you  must  think  of  ways  and 
means.     What  are  you  going  to  do  next  ?  " 

Banarsi  Das  confessed  that  he  found  it  difficult  to 
make  "  the  two  ends  meet."  "  My  bed  of  roses  in 
this  life  has  been  very  thorny,  not  to  say  muricate." 

"  Well,  then,  Mr.  Riley  is  going  to  give  you  the  chance 
of  a  softer  bed.  You  may  be  able  to  pick  out  all  the 
thorns.     What  has  been  your  trouble?  " 

Banarsi  Das  laid  his  hand  on  his  short-cropped  hair, 
a  familiar  gesture  when  he  was  in  difficulties  as  to  the 
marshalling  of  his  points  and  the  most  effective  way 
of  delivering  them.  "  Sir,"  he  began,  "  I  have  been 
outraged  by  Fortune."  But  here  he  checked  himself, 
hesitating  perhaps  to  betray  mankind's  concerted 
indifference  to  his  worth.  He  had  been  ejected  by  the 
Government  school  in  which  Skene  had  secured  him  a 
mastership.  He  had  failed  as  an  agent  and  advertiser 
for  a  firm  of  Aurvedic  medicines.  The  Cooperative 
Credit  Society  discovered  that  they  had  no  need  for 
him.  The  revolutionary  gang,  of  which  he  was  to  be  a 
paid  employe,  had  discarded  him  at  the  last  moment, 
doubting  his  staunchness.  As  assistant  in  the  Religious 
Bookshop,  and  again  as  translator  in  The  Roshni 

Banarsi  Das  blinked  at  Skene  and  Riley  and  pre- 
served an  inscrutable  silence  about  his  past.  It  was 
no  doubt  this  rapid  mental  review  of  his  reverses  that 
influenced  his  decision.    For  in  the  end  he  accepted  the 


BANARSI  DAS  41 

post  that  Riley  offered  him  on  the  Gazette  with  the 
air  of  conferring  a  favour. 

He  might  have  remembered  that  Skene  and  Riley 
had  to  disappoint  young  men  nearly  every  day  who 
came  to  them  for  patronage  and  employment ;  but  he 
did  not  feel  in  the  least  grateful.  He  preceded  the  two 
Englishmen  to  the  foot  of  the  spiral  staircase.  They 
shook  hands  with  him  and  he  saw  them  depart,  to  be 
merged  again  in  the  scheming,  acquisitive,  material 
world  in  which  they  dwelt,  devoid  of  sympathy, 
unconscious  of  ideals.  As  he  brooded  over  the  manu- 
script, now  restored  from  the  almirah  to  the  desk,  his 
recollection  of  the  interview  became  coloured  with 
resentment.  Riley's  refusal  to  admit  him  into  the 
fold  of  the  elect  was  all  part  of  the  concrete  barrier 
which  the  British  opposed  to  his  countrymen's  aspira- 
tions. The  editor  of  The  Thompsonpiir  Gazette  had 
denied  Banarsi  Das  one  more  opportunity,  and  it  had 
seemed  almost  within  his  grasp,  to  "  utter." 


II 

Skene  and  Riley  paused  in  the  square  outside  the 
Roshni  office  and  admired  the  signboard  emblazoned 
with  the  rising  sun.  Underneath  the  ball  of  gold 
Barkatullah  had  inscribed  a  Persian  motto,  "  How  can 
the  Shades  of  Darkness  resist  the  Flood  of  Light?  " 
From  the  balcony  of  an  adjoining  house,  inhabited  by 
what  Skene  called  "  a  vernacular  band,"  a  large  trumpet 
proclaimed  to  the  world  in  melodies  unheard  the  readi- 
ness of  the  hireling  orchestra  within  to  satisfy  the 
sensual  ear  at  pomps  and  marriages.  Sun  and  trumpet, 
glare  and  blare,  were  always  associated  in  Riley's  mind 


42  ABDICATION 

with  BarkatuUah's  stentorian  propaganda.  The 
thought  of  the  pathetic  figure  of  Banarsi  Das  alone  and 
inarticulate  in  the  darkened  offices  of  The  Roshni 
was  singularly  incongruous.  Was  he  still  bending  over 
that  schoolroom  desk?  It  might  have  been  the  very 
bench  at  which  he  had  sat,  at  Skene's  feet,  when 
he  paraphrased  the  "  Ode  to  a  Nightingale "  at 
Gandeshwar. 

"  What  on  earth  did  Banarsi  Das  mean  by  *  muri- 
cate  '?  "  Riley  asked  Skene  as  he  got  into  the  trap. 

"  Heaven  knows  !  I  always  have  to  look  up  words 
in  a  dictionary  when  I've  been  talking  with  Banarsi 
Das.  He  has  a  wonderful  memory.  I  believe  he  spends 
hours  learning  the  EncyclopcBdia  by  heart." 

"  I've  got  it,"  Skene  shouted  as  they  swung  out  of 
the  square  by  Amir  Khan's  mosque.  "  *  Who  fished 
the  murex  up?  '  " 

Riley  capped  the  quotation.  "  '  What  porridge  had 
John  Keats  ?  '  Do  all  your  Arts  Students  talk  English 
like  that?  " 

"  Banarsi  Das  is  a  freak.  He  is  out  for  colour. 
'  Stokes x)utdares  Nokes  in  azure  feats.'  If  he  had  been 
at  Oxford  or  Cambridge  he  would  have  been  a  decadent 
or  a  Bolshevik.  No;  I  think  the  average  student's 
grasp  of  English  is  extraordinary." 

Banarsi  Das'  grasp  of  the  language  was  certainly 
crushing.  At  Gandeshwar  he  had  not  been  reckoned 
a  particularly  intelligent  youth,  as  students  go.  Skene 
had  pushed  him  up  through  the  Intermediate  to  the 
Fourth  Year  class.  He  was  a  failed  B.A.  He  could 
tell  you  the  names  of  the  Sylphs  who  attended  Belinda 
at  her  toilet  in  "  The  Rape  of  the  Lock."  He  could 
repeat  an  annotator's  rendering  in  Babu  English  of  the 
most    difficult    passages    in    "  Adonais."    He    could 


BANARSI  DAS  48 

enumerate  the  virtues  and  defects  of  poets  like  Words- 
worth and  Tennyson,  and  he  had  mastered  the  logical 
sequences  of  ideas,  if  not  the  philosophy,  expressed 
in  Keats*  "  Ode  to  a  Nightingale."  Banarsi  Das 
often  compared  literature  to  a  garden ;  it  was  a  pleasance 
in  which  he  trampled  freely,  a  collector  and  despoiler. 

"  Did  you  hear  him  tell  me  that  he  would  be  at  my 
office  at  ten  o'clock  on  Monday  morning  with  the 
punctuality  of  a  tick  ?  " 

"  Sounds  a  bit  ominous,"  Skene  remarked  drily. 
"  But  Banarsi  Das  was  always  a  pessimist." 

"  What  on  earth  is  he  doing  on  a  Muhammadan 
newspaper?     I  thought  he  was  a  Samajist." 

"  He  was.  Probably  he  is  now.  He  and  Siri  Ram 
were  accomplices  and  sat  at  the  feet  of  Narasimha 
Swami.  That  BarkatuUah  should  have  taken  him  on 
The  Roshni  is  a  sign  of  the  times." 

"  You  mean  the  Hindu-Moslem  entente?  " 

"  Yes.  It  is  only  just  beginning  in  earnest.  It's 
going  to  be  the  biggest  political  movement  of  the 
century.  Dean  is  very  uneasy  about  it.  Up  till  now 
when  there  has  been  any  trouble  we've  had  the  Muham- 
madans  or  Sikhs  or  Hindus  on  our  side.  Next  time 
we  are  going  to  be  up  against  the  whole  combine. 
Even  the  Sikhs  are  disaffected." 

"  We  are  making  a  nation  of  them  all,  and  the  cement 
is  hatred  of  the  British." 

"  Just  so.  We've  made  Indian  nationahty  quite 
unconsciously.  Remove  us  and  they  will  be  at  each 
other's  throats  in  two  months." 

"  Still  it  is  not  our  business  to  divide  them.  If  only 
this  Hindu-Moslem  entente  were  genuine  it  would  be 
the  best  thing  that  could  happen  to  them.  We  could 
clear  out  with  honour.    We  don't  want  India.    It's 


44  ABDICATION 

nothing  but  a  festering  sore.  I'm  all  for  a  White 
Empire." 

"  And  let  the  Indians  go  to  the  devil  in  their  own 
way?  " 

"  I'd  rather  they  went  there  alone  than  that  we 
went  with  them  in  a  mutually  abhorrent  embrace." 

"  But  what  about  the  old  zemindar?  "  Skene  said. 
"After  all  he  makes  up  nine-tenths  of  the  population, 
and  the  only  person  so  far  to  save  him  from  the  vakil  ^ 
and  the  bumtiah^  has  been  the  British  civihan." 

"  The  zemindar  would  look  after  himself  all  right." 

*'  With  lathis,  you  mean  ?  Sheer  anarchy.  Nothing 
else." 

**  We  must  leave  him  the  Government  he  deserves." 

"  But  he  doesn't  deserve  it.  Your  scuttle  policy  is 
hopeless,  Riley.     Think  of  our  obligations." 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  old  man,  I'm  tired  of  being 
reminded  about  our  obligations.  We've  got  all 
articulate  India  howling  out  to  us  to  hand  over  and 
go,  and  we  tell  them  *  We're  here  for  your  good.'  " 

"Well.     Isn't  it  true?  " 

"  It  used  to  be  true,  but  with  this  race-hatred 
kindling  everywhere  British  rule  is  a  positive  calamity. 
Nothing  could  be  worse  for  them  or  for  ourselves. 
They  simply  don't  believe  in  us.  And  why  should 
they?  I  don't  believe  in  Government  myself.  They 
hang  on  to  every  scrap  of  privilege  and  authority  as 
long  as  they  can,  and  then  let  it  go  bit  by  bit,  when 
they  can't  hold  on  any  longer.  They  are  afraid  to 
govern  and  daren't  abdicate.  And  the  people  are 
beginning  to  see  that  they  are  frightened.  That  is 
quite  enough  to  detach  the  unpoHtical  masses.  Gandhi 
will  whistle  them  away  hke  the  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin, 
1  Lawyer,  2  Money-lender. 


BANARSI  DAS  45 

It  must  end  in  revolution.  After  that,  repression. 
India  an  armed  camp,  or  the  deluge.  The  sun-dried 
bureaucrat  sees  it  coming,  but  all  he  thinks  about  is 
his  own  umbrella,  just  to  hang  on  a  little  longer  till  he 
gets  his  pension.  He  hopes  India  will  last  his  time, 
but  it  won't." 

"  And  what  is  your  remedy,  young  Riley?  " 

"  Tell  them  that  if  they  don't  want  us  we  are  going 
in  two  years.  Gall  in  the  native  chiefs.  Hand  over 
responsibiUty  for  law  and  order  to  them.  Hyderabad 
in  the  south,  Patiala  in  the  north,  Gwahor  and  Indorc 
in  the  west.  Give  the  east  to  Pertab  Singh  and  his 
Rajputs.  Let  them  make  the  best  of  it  they  can. 
Everyone  who  knows  the  country  understands  that 
this  democracy  business  is  all  bunkum.  Yet  we  can't 
stay  here  and  go  back  on  our  silly  pledge." 

"  And  who  is  going  to  protect  the  North-West 
Frontier?  Someone  must  hold  the  ring.  What's 
going  to  prevent  the  Gurkhas  overrunning  Bengal?  " 

"  That  is  India's  look-out.  There  is  no  reason  why 
we  should  not  hold  the  North- West  Frontier,  if  they 
want  us  there,  and  they  probably  will.  India  of 
course  would  have  to  pay,  and  the  different  States 
could  supply  troops  on  a  rotatory  system  to  be  trained 
by  us." 

"  I  see.  You  have  got  it  all  on  paper.  The  Golden 
Age  again.     Have  you  allowed  for  the  financial  crash  ?  " 

"  The  box- wallah  will  shake  the  pagoda-tree,  when 
we  have  gone,  more  lustily  than  ever.  Don't  you  see, 
as  soon  as  we  hand  over  this  race-hatred  will  die. 
They'll  want  Enghshmen.  As  for  pensions  and  all 
that,  we  could  hold  Bombay,  Calcutta  and  Madras  as 
a  security.    They'd  soon  pay  up  and  buy  us  out." 

"  I  hke  your  Utopia,  young  Riley.    You  might  as 


46  ABDICATION 

well  unchain  a  lot  of  mad  dogs  in  a  yard  and  leave  them 
to  fight  it  out.  Do  you  really  think  our  departure 
would  bring  feUcity  to  Barkatullah  and  Banarsi 
Das?  " 

"I'm  sure  it  would — relative  felicity  at  any  rate. 
And  we've  got  ourselves  to  think  of.  If  we  stay  on 
like  this  and  drift,  there  will  be  another  Amritsar  every 
week,  white  men  murdered  in  out-stations,  white 
women  and  children  knocked  on  the  head.  Either 
that  or  the  Prussian  heel  and  Dyer  again." 

"  My  God !  "  Skene  shouted.  "  If  they  touched  our 
women  I  would  train  monkeys  in  hell  to  fight  them." 

They  had  passed  the  Mori  Gate  and  were  entering  the 
cantonments.  Queen  Victoria  under  her  marble  canopy 
held  out  her  scroll  to  an  unbeheving  world.  Yet  there 
was  nothing  ominous  in  the  atmosphere  of  Thomp- 
sonpur,  nothing  to  imply  any  rude  awakening  from 
her  dream,  or  rejection  of  her  proffered  gift.  In  the 
hybrid  quarter  outside  the  gate,  where  the  old  and  new 
towns  meet,  the  unoiled  wheels  of  bullock  carts  chanted 
a  drowsy  litany  of  content.  The  drivers  bent  forward 
sleepily  over  the  yoke.  Files  of  soft-footed  camels 
moved  like  creatures  wound  up  and  impelled  by 
necessity,  the  automata  of  fate.  No  human  figure 
stood  erect  under  that  blistering  sun.  Only  the 
bhisti,  bent  over  his  mussaq,  attacked  the  dust  with 
rhythmic  sweeps.  The  rest  of  the  world  seemed  to 
be  wrapped  in  a  profound  uncomfortable  slumber. 
Rumour  herself  was  asleep. 

As  they  passed  the  Queen's  statue,  Riley,  pointing 
at  this  particular  facet  of  "  the  brightest  gem  in  her 
diadem,"  said,  "  Give  me  the  village  green,  geese  on 
the  pond,  duckweed  and  water-buttercups,  and  a  hairy- 
heeled  old  cart-horse  dipping  her  mane  in  the  weeds." 


BANARSI  DAS  47 

"  Throw  in  a  big  shady  willow-tree/'  Skene  added, 
"  gorse  in  blossom  and  a  lark  in  the  sky." 

After  that  neither  of  them  spoke  until  Skene  drew  up 
and  dropped  his  friend  at  the  offices  of  the  Gazette. 

"  Good-bye,  young  Riley,"  he  shouted  back  at  him. 
"  Give  Banarsi  Das  a  chance.  And  don't  publish  your 
new  gospel  in  the  Gazette.*' 

"  Good-bye,  old  Skene." 


Ill 

"  Religion  is  country,"  Banarsi  Das  repeated  to 
himself  as  he  pored  over  the  Koran  in  the  Roshni 
office.  "  AUahu  Akbar  and  Om  are  one  name."  He 
did  not  find  the  words  in  the  holy  book;  they  formu- 
lated a  new  and  startling  creed.  He  had  overheard 
them  in  a  conversation  between  Barkatullah  and  the 
moulvi  of  Amir  Khan's  mosque,  and  he  had  caught  at 
them  with  the  instinct  of  a  pioneer.  The  formula  was 
soon  to  become  one  of  the  familiar  political  catchwords 
of  the  hour. 

Banarsi  Das  had  travelled  far  in  tolerance  since  his 
association  with  Siri  Ram.  There  had  been  an 
Anglophile  period  after  the  tragic  death  of  his  friend. 
For  a  full  year  after  leaving  Gandeshwar  he  had 
maintained  relations  with  Skene.  Then — it  was  in  the 
drifting  phase  between  the  Government  school  and  the 
Cooperative  Credit  Bank — he  had  fallen  among 
revolutionaries  again;  Ghadr  pamphlets  and  the  tales 
of  returned  emigrants  revived  the  rancour  of  old  days. 
He  became  a  member  of  a  Samiti.  He  was  flattered 
by  his  confederates.  There  was  mystery  and  glory 
in  it.    Ramesh,  a  wandering  Bengali  ascetic,  was  the 


48  ABDICATION 

first  to  fire  his  imagination.  The  youth  had  something 
of  the  appeal  of  Narasimha  Swami  and  aspired  to  the 
Mahatma's  mantle.  A  master  of  pose,  he  seduced 
Banarsi  Das  by  ritual.  Nothing  stood  out  so  sahently 
in  our  young  friend's  memory  as  the  night  of  his 
initiation.  He  was  dedicated  by  Ramesh  to  Kali. 
The  goddess  was  conveyed  to  the  place  of  ceremony 
wrapped  in  a  crimson  cloth  in  an  ekka.  The  night  was 
pitch,  and  the  conspirators  walked  by  the  side  of  the 
cart,  all  save  Ramesh,  who  strode  ahead  chanting 
mantras,  and  Banarsi  Das  himself,  who  rode  in  un- 
comfortable state  clasping  the  idol.  Kali  seemed  to 
be  endowed  with  a  divine  energy.  With  every  jerk 
of  the  ekka  she  Hfted  Banarsi  Das  as  if  to  precipitate 
him  in  the  dust  beneath  the  wheels.  After  a  time  his 
embrace  became  passive;  the  goddess  grasped  him 
with  her  many  arms;  she  seemed  about  to  eject  him 
with  violence.  Long  before  they  reached  the  burning 
ghat  Banarsi  Das  was  convinced  that  he  was  un- 
acceptable; and  what  was  worse,  he  no  longer  wished 
to  be  accepted.  He  was  shaken  and  confused,  a  prey 
to  vague  apprehensions,  fear  of  the  ceremony  and  all 
that  it  might  imply,  and  the  unknown  sacrifice  to 
succeed  it  at  which  Ramesh  had  hinted  darkly.  He 
longed  for  his  bed  in  the  serai,  the  homely  muffled 
sound  of  tethered  baggage  animals,  of  camels  chewing 
their  dry  provender,  and  the  prosy  snore  of  merchants 
and  drovers. 

As  they  entered  the  narrow  lane  which  led  into  the 
field  of  ashes  a  huge  banian-tree  with  spreading  arms 
made  the  darkness  more  intense.  Banarsi  Das  re- 
membered it  by  twiHght  as  a  place  so  haunted  by  the 
spirits  of  the  dead  that  he  was  afraid  to  approach  it. 
The  ekka  pony,  an  unresponsive,  sleepy  jade,  with 


BANARSI  DAS  49 

outlines  of  skin  and  bone,  half-starved  into  inanition, 
now  became  a  sensitive.  It  trembled  and  snorted  and 
sweated  and  jibbed,  and  backed  the  cart  with  its  holy 
freight  up  the  bund  towards  the  canal.  Little  owls, 
disturbed  by  the  commotion,  dropped  from  the  branches 
Hke  weighed  djinns.  A  jackal  howled  carnivorously. 
Banarsi  Das  fancied  that  luminous  eyeballs  betrayed 
the  presence  of  the  unseen.  Ramesh  was  dragging  him 
to  the  ground.  KaU  was  thrust  into  his  arms.  He  had 
to  carry  her  past  the  cavernous  roots  of  the  tree. 

Banarsi  Das  half-fainting  with  fear  was  prompted 
through  the  ceremony  by  Ramesh.  The  vow  of 
dedication  was  taken  by  him  before  the  goddess  with 
a  sword  and  gita  on  his  head,  kneeling  on  his  left  knee. 
In  this,  the  pratyalirha  position,  he  was  supposed  to 
represent  a  Hon  springing  on  his  prey,  though  anything 
more  unhke  a  Hon  than  Banarsi  Das,  unless  it  was  the 
terrified  ekka  pony,  it  would  be  difficult  to  imagine. 
Evidently  the  conspirators  had  gauged  Banarsi  Das' 
mettle.  He  was  to  have  been  taken  the  next  day  to 
see  the  national  flag  hidden  in  an  alcove  of  a  ruined 
shrine ;  but  he  was  told  the  goddess  had  commimicated 
with  Ramesh  in  the  night  and  rejected  him.  His  vows 
were  not  binding,  as  the  ritual  was  incomplete.  His 
confederates  consorted  with  him  no  more. 

One  would  think  that  the  memory  of  his  relief  at  his 
escape  from  the  embrace  of  Kali  might  have  sobered 
Banarsi  Das  and  subdued  his  inclination  for  perilous 
adventure.  One  of  Ramesh's  accompHces  was  in  the 
Andamans ;  another  had  been  executed ;  the  mutilated 
body  of  a  third,  believed  to  be  a  betrayer  and  victim  of 
the  Samiti,  was  found  in  a  trunk  in  a  railway  carriage 
in  Bengal.  Ramesh  himself  had  disappeared.  But 
the  craving  for  self-expression  in  Banarsi  Das  was 

£ 


50  ABDICATION 

inordinate.  A  day  or  two  before  Skene  had  brought 
Riley  to  see  him  he  had  been  given  a  ghmpse  of  another 
part  in  which  he  might  figure  heroically.  The  new  call 
was  for  *'  sacrificing  men."  He  was  persuaded  that 
there  was  immediate  glory  in  it,  though  the  arena  for 
sacrifice  was  yet  far  away.  He  was  tempted  to  become 
a  conspirator  again.  He  was  in  two  minds  about 
joining  the  Gazette.  It  would  mean  promotion  and 
security — more  than  a  mere  livelihood.  He  pictured 
himself  in  the  office  among  other  clerks,  Indian  and 
Eurasian,  and  was  undecided  as  to  whether  he  should 
wear  "  the  English  costume."  Many  of  his  friends 
would  envy  him,  but  the  greater  number  would  regard 
him  as  a  backslider.  It  was  becoming  more  and  more 
the  fashion  to  apply  epithets  of  contempt  to  the  servants 
of  the  English,  more  especially  to  Government  officials 
and  title-holders.  A  correspondent  of  the  Roshni  had 
recently  denounced  all  Khan  Sahibs,  Rai  Bahadurs, 
and  such-like  decorated  supporters  of  Government  as  a 
sycophantic  tribe,  "  the  daroghas  (doorkeepers)  of 
hell,"  And  ridicule  was  still  harder  to  bear.  Banarsi 
Das  did  not  like  the  idea  of  being  called  an  apke-wasti, 
jo-hookum,  or  khusandi  (lickspittle,  time-server,  toady). 
His  association  with  the  Roshni  gave  him  a  certain 
status  among  patriots  as  a  chartered  revolutionary. 
He  was  in  a  position  to  despise  the  infirm  who  sold 
their  birthright  for  a  mess  of  pottage.  One  of  the 
commonest  terms  of  abuse  in  the  Moslem  world  to 
which  he  was  becoming  initiated  was  the  word  **  kafir." 
In  the  school  of  Barkatullah  any  young  man  who  sought 
the  favour  of  Christians,  or  mixed  with  them  for  the 
sake  of  honour,  was  a  kafir,  as  was  any  who  doubted 
that  India  under  British  rule  had  become  dar-ul-harb, 
a  land  hostile  to  Islam,  or  who  reconciled  obedience  to 


BANARSI  DAS  51 

the  Government  with  obedience  to  Allah,  or  who  wore 
a  tie  and  collar,  or  who  did  not  profess  himself  ready 
to  sacrifice  his  life  and  property  for  his  Caliph.  Such 
was  the  lip-service  paid  to  rehgion,  and  religion  with 
the  Moslem  was  becoming  nothing  more  nor  less  than 
a  cultivated  Xenophobia;  not  the  hatred  of  the 
Hindu — he  was  no  longer  a  stranger — but  the  hatred 
of  the  alien  white  man,  so  superior,  proud  and  efficient, 
who  made  laws  and  assessed  taxes,  and  drilled  and 
exploited  Asiatic  hordes,  growing  fat  on  the  fruits  of 
the  land,  and  who  was  now  plotting  to  destroy  the 
garden  of  Islam. 

Hindu  and  Moslem  were  in  need  of  one  another. 
Neither  would  admit  the  opportunism  that  prompted 
such  cries  as  "  Allahu  Akbar  and  Om  are  one  name." 
As  the  local  poet  put  it  plaintively,  "  Tears  always  well 
up  in  both  eyes,  not  in  one  only."  The  young  Mussal- 
mans  of  Gopalpura  had  admitted  Banarsi  Das  into  their 
ranks  as  a  free  companion.  He  had  been  taken  by 
them  to  more  than  one  meeting  held  in  the  graveyard 
by  the  ruined  mosque  of  Ain-ul-Quzzat,  a  mile  and  a 
half  outside  the  city.  Here  he  had  heard  bolder 
incitements  to  rebellion,  more  confident  predictions  of 
the  expulsion  of  the  British  from  the  Motherland, 
than  at  any  of  the  gatherings  of  his  Hindu  associates 
in  Gandeshwar  when  he  was  an  accomplice  of  Siri  Ram. 
The  red  fez  and  the  woolly  Astrakhan  cap  were  never 
seen  at  those  meetings.  Now  the  sword  of  the  avenger 
was  in  the  hands  of  Islam.  The  air  was  charged  with 
immediate  menace.  When  he  listened  to  these  fire- 
brands he  could  not  believe  their  fulminations  were 
in  vain.  In  the  days  when  he  and  Siri  Ram  and  Lachmi 
Ghand  had  held  forth  at  Gandeshwar  it  had  been  like  a 
debating  society,  in  which  schoolboys  played  with  a 


52  ABDICATION 

dream.  Their  vows  were  dedicated  to  an  image  which 
they  knew  was  unreal.  Siri  Ram  alone  had  risen  to 
sacrifice,  and  he  had  been  pushed  and  dragged  to  the 
altar.  These  were  men  of  action.  Their  eyes  shone. 
They  had  the  air  of  martyrs.  Their  religion  was 
threatened,  and  Banarsi  Das  believed  that  they  were 
ready  to  die.  Only  two  days  before  Skene  and  Riley 
climbed  the  corkscrew  stair  to  his  office  he  had  heard  a 
greybeard,  who  gave  himself  out  to  be  an  Afghan,  say 
that  next  year  the  Indians  would  rule  India.  The 
Amir  of  Kabul  would  attack  the  English  and  drive 
them  over  the  Indus,  and  the  whole  of  Hindustan  would 
rise  against  them,  when  to  escape  slaughter  they  would 
abandon  the  country.  He  added  that  it  was  not 
necessary  to  admonish  Indians  of  this,  as  they  would 
receive  natural  promptings  to  rise  when  the  time  came. 
When  the  fiery  little  man  had  finished,  all  the  company 
in  the  graveyard  rose  to  their  feet  and  cried  "  Amin." 
Th-e  inspiration  and  the  prompting,  Banarsi  Das 
felt,  were  not  far  distant.  Defiance  was  visible  on  the 
face  of  every  Moslem  in  the  circle.  The  desire  to  court 
imprisonment  and  internment  and  to  earn  the  title  of 
"  Hero  "  and  "  Martyr  "  had  become  endemic  in 
Gopalpura.  The  old  man,  however,  who  styled  himself 
an  Afghan,  was  a  stranger.  He  had  seemed  the  very 
incarnation  of  energy  amidst  the  dust  and  decay  of  the 
cemetery  where  the  funereal  cypresses,  like  plumes  on  a 
hearse,  and  the  weeping  tufted  tamarisks  with  their 
caked  tassels,  overhung  the  innumerable  little  graves, 
all  pointing  one  way,  in  which  the  faithful  lay  with 
their  feet  towards  Mecca.  The  heat  of  the  afternoon 
was  overpowering.  The  metallic  sky  hung  low  and 
solid  above  their  heads  like  a  dome  or  an  oven,  of  the 
same  consistency  as  earth,  and  emitting  the  same  hard, 


BANARSI  DAS  58 

fiery  particles  that  pricked  and  parched  the  skin  and 
dried  up  the  moisture  in  one's  throat.  It  was  the  kind 
of  day  on  which  one  is  reminded  that  the  East  has  been 
the  home  of  futihty  for  the  last  thousand  years,  and 
that  by  the  decree  of  Allah  and  the  conr>piracy  of  the 
elements  it  could  not  be  otherwise.  Yet  this  grey- 
beard, who  sprung  from  nobody  knew  where,  and 
spoke  with  the  voice  of  a  bell,  had  awakened  a  sense  of 
life  and  victory  in  a  scene  so  dead,  that  one  would  think 
no  impulse  towards  resurrection  could  survive  in  it. 

The  "  Afghan  "  was  staying  with  a  Wahabi  moulvi 
in  Amir  Khan's  mosque.  Jemal  Khan,  a  friend  of 
Banarsi  Das  and  his  sponsor  in  the  Moslem  world,  had 
visited  him  there.  He  had  been  with  him  half  the 
night  when  he  met  Banarsi  Das  the  next  morning  and 
opened  out  to  him  a  project  of  adventurous  service. 
The  Afghan  was  an  emissary  of  the  Hindustani  fanatics 
who  dwelt  under  the  mountain  of  caves  at  Asmas, 
beyond  the  Indus,  in  the  territory  of  the  Nawab  of 
Amb.  There  is  a  verse  in  the  Koran,  known  to  the 
initiate,  which  is  used  as  a  text  to  recognise  a  mujahid. 
When  Jemal  Khan  recited  the  verse,  the  Afghan 
unbosomed  himself.  He  had  come  to  sound  the  people 
of  India,  he  said.  In  every  community  there  were 
people  who  hated  the  English,  and  who  looked  to  the 
Afghans  to  restore  Islam.  If  Turkey  were  destroyed, 
the  Amir  would  call  the  faithful  to  arms,  and  all  who 
refused  to  take  part  in  the  Jehad  would  be  denounced 
as  Kafirs  by  the  moulvi es,  and  their  honour  would  be  the 
honour  of  those  who  had  been  beaten  with  shoes.  The 
last  time  Afghanistan  waged  war  on  the  English  she 
was  a  single  nation ;  this  time  when  she  raised  the  flag 
of  the  Jehad  she  would  be  assisted  by  every  other 
Asiatic  race. 


54  ABDICATION 

"  He  has  sowed  a  song  and  will  reap  a  sword," 
Banarsi  Das  quoted  aptly  from  the  Persian. 

"  The  harvest  is  sure,"  Jemal  Khan  told  him.  "  He 
has  come  and  he  has  gone,  no  one  knows  whither." 

Jemal  Khan  could  not  tell  Banarsi  Das  his  name. 
"  They  call  him  *  the  Bulbul-i-Sehwan,  the  nightingale 
of  Sehwan,'  "  he  said.  "  Sehwan  is  the  shrine  of  the 
Malang  faqirs  in  Sind.  I  do  not  know  what  his  real 
name  is.     Probably  he  has  many." 

But  on  the  morning  when  Skene  and  Riley  visited 
him  Banarsi  Das'  enthusiasm  for  Islam  was  tempered 
with  doubt.  What  kind  of  respect,  he  asked  himself, 
would  the  Afghans  show  the  Hindus  of  his  Samaj  ? 
Someone  had  told  him  once  that  when  they  came  to 
India  to  help  the  Muhammadans  they  would  kill  all 
who  were  beardless,  taking  them  for  the  enemies  of 
Islam.  The  Afghans  were  worse  tyrants  than  the 
British;  the  Amir  still  blew  his  rebels  from  his  guns. 
Any  sensible  Hindu  of  the  old  school  would  tell  him 
that  it  was  foolish  to  lift  the  dam  that  held  back  the 
Pan-Islamic  flood.  One  minute  he  saw  himself  carried 
along  on  it  in  safety;  the  next  overwhelmed.  But 
the  cataclysm,  if  it  ever  came,  was  comfortably  remote. 
In  the  meanwhile  he  was  attracted  by  the  wandering 
life,  the  honour  and  mystery  and  uncertainty  of  his 
errand.  There  seemed  very  little  danger  in  it.  The 
men  of  violence  among  whom  he  would  have  to  mix 
would  honour  him,  and  be  his  friends.  It  was  national 
work.  He  would  be  a  messenger  of  Moslems  to 
Moslems. 

"  Men  are  needed  to  come  and  go,  for  nothing  may 
be  sent  by  post." 

Banarsi  Das  was  flattered  by  the  emphasis  with  which 
Jemal  Khan  pronounced  the  word  "  men."    And  he 


BANARSI  DAS  &5 

would  not  go  alone.  He  understood  that  he  would 
return  alone,  but  that  he  would  go  with  a  party. 

"  Who  are  the  party?  "  he  asked  Jemal  Khan. 

"  Before  I  make  you  acquainted  with  them  you  will 
take  a  vow  of  secrecy  with  the  Koran  on  your  head. 
If  your  decision  is  clear,  and  you  have  removed  all 
doubt,  meet  me  at  Amir  Khan's  mosque  on  the  night 
when  the  moon  is  first  sighted  in  the  month  of  Rajab." 
Jemal  Khan  did  not  think  in  Kafir  dates. 

Banarsi  Das  discovered  from  the  calendar  that  the 
moon  of  the  month  of  Rajab  would  be  sighted  on  the 
Monday  of  the  next  week.  It  was  the  very  evening  of 
the  day  on  which  he  was  to  join  the  Gazette.  Riley's 
offer  complicated  his  decision. 

All  Saturday  and  Sunday  he  was  vexed  with  doubt. 
On  Sunday  morning  he  found  Amba  Pershad  in  his 
quarters  over  the  fruit  market  near  the  Mori  Gate. 
Amba  Pershad  was  a  man  of  the  world.  He  might 
laugh  at  Banarsi  Das,  but  he  would  probably  give  him 
good  advice.  Not  that  Banarsi  Das  had  any  intention 
of  following  it;  but  he  thought  that  by  talking  over 
Riley's  offer  with  his  friend  he  might  discover  something 
more  definite  about  his  own  inclinations.  He  had  no 
intention,  of  course,  of  revealing  his  traffic  with  Jemal 
Khan. 

As  Banarsi  Das  passed  along  the  sun-baked  verandah 
over  the  bazar,  he  heard  the  dying  croak  of  a  gramo- 
phone. It  guided  him  to  Amba  Pershad 's  room. 
Amba  Pershad  was  sitting  at  his  writing-table  when 
he  saw  the  hesitating  figure  of  his  young  friend  through 
the  chick.  Banarsi  Das  had  the  appearance  of  having 
drifted  there  absent-mindedly;  his  air  of  uncertainty 
evoked  an  encouraging  summons  from  the  oracle  he  had 
come  to  consult.    Amba  Pershad's  hearty  "  Come  in, 


56  ABDICATION 

Banarsi  Das,"  was  an  unconscious  prescription  for 
infirmity.  The  young  man  looked  as  if  he  might  be 
blown  back  again  like  a  leaf  down  the  stairs  into  the 
street.  The  Babu  rose  and  lifted  the  chick  for  him. 
Banarsi  Das  floated  in,  and  stood  blinking  in  the 
doorway.  The  room  was  dark  to  him  after  the  blinding 
glare  of  the  verandah.  The  first  thing  he  noticed,  as 
the  possessions  of  Amba  Pershad  took  shape,  was  the 
huge  mouth  of  the  gramophone.  It  stood  on  a  small 
table  beside  a  desk,  which  was  strewn  with  sheets  of 
foolscap  neatly  inscribed.  The  dark  blue  table-cloth, 
the  folding  cane  arm-chair,  and  the  bookshelf,  which 
held  more  pamphlets  than  bound  volumes,  suggested 
an  English  interior.  A  bright  new  Amritsar  carpet 
covered  half  the  floor.  Three  plush-seated  chairs 
with  gilded  backs,  probably  the  discarded  furni- 
ture of  a  Raja's  Durbar  hall  picked  up  in  the  bazar, 
gave  the  room  a  sense  of  prosperity,  almost  of  ex- 
^  travagance.  Amba  Pershad's  person  bore  out  the 
general  impression  of  well-being.  He  wore  a  well-cut 
tussore  lounge  suit  in  the  English  style  and  a  soft  collar 
and  tie.  The  only  Oriental  thing  about  him  was  his 
neatly-tied  turban  which  he  had  taken  off  and  thrown 
on  the  table  by  the  gramophone,  baring  his  high 
episcopal  brow.  He  was  a  handsome  man,  a  Brahmin. 
His  beaked  aquiline  nose  and  inscrutable  eyes  would 
have  attracted  notice  an3rwhere. 

"  Well,  what  is  the  news?  "  he  asked  Banarsi  Das. 
"  Has  Barkatullah  returned?  " 
"  I  am  not  waiting  for  him." 
"  You  will  not  stay  if  he  requests  you?  " 
"  He  will  no  doubt  procure  another  assistant.     I 
have  been  offered  appointment  on  The  Thompsonpur 
Gazette" 


BANARSI  DAS  57 

Amba  Pershad  evinced  no  surprise.  Never  by  the 
movement  of  an  eyelid,  or  by  any  modulation  of  his 
voice  had  he  betrayed  so  vulgar  an  emotion. 

"  I  have  always  predicted  that  you  would  become 
famous,"  he  said.     "  Will  you  write  the  leaders?  " 

"  They  want  an  assistant  in  the  editorial  chair." 

"  Mr.  Riley  has  been  reading  your  articles.  He  has 
been  hearing  of  your  literary  ability.  You  have 
converted  him,  no  doubt,  to  share  your  views.  Which 
was  Mr.  Riley?  the  thick  man  like  a  buffalo,  or  the 
thin  keen  man  like  a  bamboo  ?  " 

It  occurred  to  Banarsi  Das  that  the  simile  in  Riley's 
case  was  apt.  The  editor  of  The  Thompsonpur  Gazette 
was  erect  and  thin  like  a  cane.  He  was  notorious  as  a 
castigator.  One  could  credit  him  with  resilience. 
"  Mr.  Skene  is  a  corpulent  gentleman,  no  doubt,"  he 
explained.  "  Mr.  Riley,  on  the  other  hand,  is  quite  the 
vice  versa." 

Amba  Pershad  pointed  to  the  sheets  of  manuscript 
on  his  table.  "  This  work  is  for  His  Corpulency,"  he 
said,  "  the  Director  of  Public  Instruction  since  the  last 
three  weeks.  I  have  not  spoken  to  the  gentleman. 
It  was  his  predecessor,  Mr.  Richardson,  who  com- 
missioned me  to  put  together  a  text-book  on  Civics  for 
use  in  Anglo- Vernacular  Middle  Schools." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  see.  You  are  pucca  Government  man. 
You  will  be  Rai  Bahadur  in  New  Year's  Honours  List 
and  will  sit  in  Durbar  on  a  chair." 

Banarsi  Das,  who  had  an  uncomfortable  feeling 
that  Amba  Pershad  had  been  laughing  at  him,  could 
not  resist  this  retort.  But  the  sting  had  no  barb 
in  it.  Amba  Pershad  continued  in  his  even  friendly 
tone  : 
"  We  are  train-bearers,  Banarsi  Pas,  you  and  I. 


58  ABDICATION 

Now  you  have  left  the  Roshni  you  have  become  one  of 
us.     Barkatullah  will  call  you  an  apke-wasti."  ^ 

"  So  far  as  principles  are  concerned/'  Banarsi  Das 
declaimed  loftily,  "  I  will  not  yield  inch  or  ell." 

Amba  Pershad  smiled.  "  Your  pen  will  obey,"  he 
said,  "  when  Mr.  Riley  dictates  theme,"  and  he  lightly 
indicated  Banarsi  Das'  political  conversion  by  imaginary 
quotations  from  the  Gazette.  "  You  will  be  writing 
about  Mahatma  Gandhi  and  saying  that  it  is  the 
English  who  have  set  the  goal  of  autonomy  before  him. 
You  will  explain  the  innocence  of  the  Rowlatt  Act, 
and  you  will  tell  the  Mussalmans  that  Islam  cannot 
suffer  if  the  British  strip  the  Khalifa  of  his  territories, 
since  no  eclipse  of  his  temporal  power  can  weaken  his 
spiritual  authority.  You  will  say  that  Dyer  and 
O'Dwyer  saved  Punjab  from  bloody  revolutionaries, 
that  Great  War  was  fought  by  British  to  gain  self- 
determination  for  small  nations,  and  that  Reform 
Scheme  is  palpable  advance  along  road  leading  by 
progressive  stages  to  realisation  of  self-government." 

Banarsi  Das  made  a  gesture  of  protest. 

**  And  when  my  name  appears  in  Honours  list  you 
will  write  my  encomium  in  the  Gazette.'* 

"  If  I  were  insincere  man  and  turncoat,  I  might  write 
these  things.  But,  you  will  see.  My  intention  is  to 
reject  offer  of  editorial  chair."  The  dignity  Banarsi 
Das  was  rejecting  increased  with  his  inclination  to 
sacrifice. 

"  Oh,  you  will  join  all  right." 

Banarsi  Das  rose  with  the  air  of  one  wounded  in  his 
self-respect  and  made  a  movement  towards  the  chick. 
Amba  Pershad  did  not  move,  but  addressed  him  from 

^  "At  your  Honour's  service,"  i.  e.  a  toady  of  Govern- 
ment. 


BANARSI   DAS  59 

his  chair,  holding  him  with  his  eye  like  the  Ancient 
Mariner. 

"  Get  down  from  your  high  horse,  Banarsi  Das. 
You  do  not  believe  what  Mr.  Riley  will  ask  you  to 
write  in  the  Gazette.  Nor  do  you  believe  all  that  you 
and  Barkatullah  have  written  in  the  Roshnt.  Neither 
do  the  British  believe  what  they  write.  They  used  to 
believe  in  themselves.  They  had  the  will  and  power  to 
do  so.  But  they  believe  no  longer.  The  bastard 
Government  has  no  more  courage.  In  a  year  or  two 
they  will  go.  Anybody  can  see  that  they  are  frightened. 
They  have  the  will  for  repression,  but  they  fear  to  apply 
it." 

"  Yet  they  say  that  Reforms  are  not  outcome  of 
agitation." 

"  The  Reforms  " — Amba  Pershad  fell  into  the  pose 
of  academic  deUvery — "  are  not  the  outcome  of  a 
demand,  but  of  our  spontaneous  recognition  of  the 
growing  political  consciousness  and  progressive  develop- 
ment of  the  Indian  people.  Agitation  may  delay,  but 
cannot  hasten  them.  That  is  Mr.  Montagu.  You  may 
see  it  in  Renter.  I  have  got  it  as  peroration  in  the  last 
chapter  of  my  Civics.  But  in  the  next  column  of  the 
newspaper  that  reports  his  speech  it  is  urged  that  the 
Bill  should  be  pushed  through  the  House  of  Commons 
with  all  possible  speed  in  order  to  allay  discontent. 
The  English  only  give  when  they  are  afraid.  It  is 
the  same  with  all  governments.  They  are  humbugs. 
You  too  are  a  humbug,  Banarsi  Das,  and  I  am  a 
humbug." 

"  I  am  man  of  principle.  I  will  not  serve  the 
British." 

"If  you  do  not  serve  Mr.  Riley,  who  else  will  employ 
you  ?     I  do  not  love  the  British  any  more  than  you  do. 


60  ABDICATION 

Banarsi  Das.  When  I  see  the  Deputy  Commissioner 
pass  in  his  carriage  with  his  chin  in  the  air  I  want  to 
spit.  But  it  does  not  help  us  to  be  angry.  It  is  better 
to  laugh.  The  white  English  vultures  are  going  to 
leave  this  country.  They  will  not  be  here  long.  Do 
not  offend  them  while  they  can  peck.  You  will  be  able 
to  stamp  on  their  necks  after  a  little  time.  In  the 
meanwhile  they  must  fill  our  bellies.  It  is  national 
money  ^' after  all.  Empire-patriotism  is  given  first 
prize.  You  will  be  carrying  a  flag  on  Empire  Day, 
Banarsi  Das." 

Here  Amba  Pershad  picked  up  a  page  of  the  synopsis 
of  his  Civics  text-book  and  read  it  aloud  to  Banarsi 
Das.  He  began  modestly  with  the  village,  the  town, 
the  State — after  all  the  Indians  had  some  sort  of 
Government  before  the  British  came;  but  these  early 
chapters  were  only  an  introduction  to  the  swelling 
imperial  theme  :  "  Our  pride  and  privilege  as  citizens 
of  the  British  Empire,  our  rights  and  duties,  our  glorious 
past  as  the  custodians  of  British  traditions,  our  future 
heritage,  our  Emperor,  our  Empire,  our  Flag." 

Banarsi  Das  shuffled  uneasily  on  his  chair.  He  hated 
Amba  Pershad,  who  made  a  mock  of  everything.  He 
knew  that  these  lyrical  effusions  alternated  with  the 
vitriolic  articles  which  Amba  Pershad  contributed 
anonymously  to  The  Kali  Yuga  and  The  Ittihad.  Not 
even  patriotism  was  sacred.  The  man  besmirched  the 
garments  of  sacrifice. 

"  Now  hear  the  Briton  on  himself."  Amba  Pershad 
turned  to  the  gramophone.  '*  I  picked  this  up  with 
twenty-three  other  records,  sacred  and  profane,  in  the 
bazar.  It  is  better  inspiration  than  fountain  of 
Muses.     I  turn  it  on  before  Civics  every  day." 

After  a  little  attention  the  raucous,  paralytic  instru- 


BANARSI  DAS  61 

ment  began  to  wheeze  out  "  Rule,  Britannia !  "  with  a 
blatancy  which  might  have  subdued  a  bookmaker. 

"  Rule,  Britan-n-nia  I    Britan-n-nia,  rule  the  waves  1 
Britons,  never,  never,  never,  shall  be  slaves." 

Banarsi  Das  had  not  heard  the  tune  before.  The 
words  were  famiHar  to  him.    They  provided  a  text. 

"  Certainly  they  will  be  slaves,  but  tyrants " 

Incapable  of  entering  into  the  spirit  of  Amba  Pershad, 
he  was  launching  on  one  of  his  sententious  sermons, 
when  his  friend  invoked  the  gramophone  to  apply  the 
closure,  "  Now  hear  their  sacred  music,"  he  said;  and 
the  instrument  responded  with  "  A  few  more  years 
shall  roll." 

"  It  is  like  an  old  woman  crying  for  her  dead  buffalo," 
Amba  Pershad  remarked,  as  the  strains  died  away, 
and  the  air  became  charged  again  with  the  buzzing  of 
flies.  "  Yes.  I  will  be  paid  five  hundred  rupees  for 
the  text-book.  If  it  runs  for  two  or  three  years  I  may 
make  a  thousand." 

But  Banarsi  Das  did  not  hear.  He  was  immobilised. 
He  fled  to  preserve  his  illusions.  He  felt  that  Amba 
Pershad  was  a  man  whom  one  might  trust  to  do  nothing 
inexpedient,  but  in  whom  trust  was  otherwise  mis- 
placed. As  he  lifted  the  chick,  flooding  the  room  with 
dust  and  light,  the  oracle  called  out  to  him,  "  You  will 
join  the  Gazette,  Banarsi  Das." 

For  some  occult  reason  he  hoped  that  he  would 
not. 

For  two  days  Banarsi  Das  had  drifted  between 
Thompsonpur  and  Gopalpura  in  body  as  in  mind.  It 
was  late  on  Sunday  evening  when  he  found  himself 
outside  the  offices  of  the  Gazette  and  made  his  first 


62  ABDICATION 

conscious  survey  of  the  building.  The  block  was  set 
back  from  the  road  like  the  neighbouring  hotel.  As 
Banarsi  Das  stood  looking  over  the  clipped  duranta 
hedge  survejdng  the  potential  forcing-house  of  his 
genius,  he  saw  an  Englishman  emerge  from  a  door 
which  he  gathered  led  to  the  press.  He  did  not  like 
the  look  of  the  man,  and  be  became  uneasy  when  he 
noticed  that  he  had  seen  him  and  was  changing  his 
course,  making  towards  the  gate  near  which  he  stood. 
His  short  stodgy  figure  and  confident  strut  with  its 
suggestion  of  efficiency  alarmed  Banarsi  Das.  At 
close  quarters  every  feature  of  the  Englishman  was 
repellent;  his  thick  neck  and  tight  well-fitting  grey 
suit  expanded  by  his  bulging  calves,  his  little  stiff 
clipped  red  moustache,  and  gimlet  eyes,  colourless  and 
porcine,  which  had  never  been  softened  by  dreams  or 
sympathy,  and  over  all  the  hateful  topee,  crest  and 
symbol  of  brute  power  and  dictation  from  above. 

This  alarming  person  bore  down  on  Banarsi  Das, 
and  asked  him  for  a  match.  He  called  it  deer-salai  in 
his  pigeon  Hindustani,  and  Banarsi  Das,  who  never 
carried  matches,  did  not  understand  what  the  English- 
man wanted.  He  stared  at  him  timidly  and  stupidly, 
thinking  that  he  was  being  abused  for  loitering  near  the 
office  of  the  Gazette. 

The  Englishman  appeared  angry  and  red.  He 
repeated  the  word  deer-salai  with  an  explanatory 
gesture,  striking  an  imaginary  match  in  the  air.  Then 
he  turned  away  disgusted  at  Banarsi  Das'  stupidity, 
muttering  crossly,  "  No,  of  course,  you  wouldn't  'ave 
a  match,  monkey-face." 

Banarsi  Das  turned  back  towards  Gopalpura  and 
loitered  by  Amir  Khan's  mosque.  The  friendly  shelter 
of  the  plinth  under  the  minaret  refreshed  him.     He 


BANARSI  DAS  68 

looked  to  the  point  in  the  sky  where  the  new  moon 
would  appear  on  the  first  day  of  Rajab  and  remembered 
the  verse  from  the  Koran  which  the  Afghan  had 
repeated  in  the  graveyard  of  Ain-ul-Quzzat :  "  Praise 
be  to  God,  Who  has  brought  us  away  from  the  House  of 
our  enemies." 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM 


The  inside  of  the  club  was  deserted.  Men  were 
sitting  under  the  huge  gallows-Hke  punkah  outside, 
which  small  urchins  in  uniform  were  pulling  fitfully. 
The  cotton-tree  had  spilt  its  last  crimson  blossom. 
The  brain-fever  bird  was  repeating  its  shrillest  note. 
The  club  tennis-courts,  which  had  been  lying  under 
two  inches  of  canal  water  in  the  morning,  had  been 
sucked  dry  by  the  sun  and  emitted  a  rank  and  sickly 
smell.  The  heat  was  not  yet  overpowering,  but  one 
knew  that  it  would  increase  daily  for  at  least  six  weeks, 
possibly  two  months,  and  one's  sense  of  resourceless- 
ness  was  aggravated  by  apprehension. 

Skene  had  been  on  tour  inspecting  schools.  He  had 
spent  the  last  twelve  hours  in  the  train  feeling  like  a 
steak  on  a  gridiron.  As  he  steered  for  the  white- 
coated  company  under  the  erection  that  looked  like  a 
gallows,  the  thought  of  refreshment  and  companionship 
quickened  his  step.  The  recompense  of  the  day  at  this 
stage  of  the  hot  weather  was  the  first  long  bubbly  drink 
after  sundown  when  the  ice  tinkled  in  the  glass  like 
music.  How  musically  is  inexpressible  in  prose 
Riley  had  emptied  pails  of  Helicon  in  his  search  for  an 
analogy.    It  sounded  to  him  as  the  tinkling  of  cattle 

64 


THE   CAVE   OF  ADULLAM  65 

bells  to  the  lost  traveller  under  the  hill,  or  as  the 
summons  to  prayer  heard  by  some  ecstatic  nun. 

Riley  was  sitting  under  the  nearest  punkah,  with  a 
long  glass  in  his  hand  which  he  held  out  at  arm's  length 
as  if  invoking  something,  when  the  burly  figure  of  his 
friend  appeared  out  of  the  dust  and  gloom  in  response 
to  the  libation. 

"  Skene,  old  boy !  By  Jove  !  When  did  you  get 
back?  Have  a  long  drink.''  The  season  of  the  pau 
in  Thompsonpur  had  passed  with  the  early  days  of 
April. 

Riley  was  sitting  with  the  very  man  Skene  wanted 
to  talk  to.  Farquhar,  the  Principal  of  Thompsonpur 
College,  would  be  able  to  tell  him  about  the  runaway 
muhajarin.^  The  event  of  the  hour  in  the  political 
world  was  the  defection  of  fourteen  of  his  Muhammadan 
students  who  had  gone  over  the  frontier  to  join  "  the 
Army  of  God."  Riley  was  trying  to  get  the  story  out 
of  Farquhar  when  Skene  joined  him.  "  The  whole 
thing  beats  me,"  Farquhar  was  saying.  "  I  can't  make 
it  out.  They  were  steady  sensible  fellows,  among  the 
best  I  have  got.  Some  poisonous  agitator  must  have 
been  getting  at  them,  Barkatullah  or  one  of  his  crowd." 

"  Persuaded  them  that  they  were  Kafirs,"  Riley 
suggested. 

Hill  joined  the  group,  tumbler  in  hand,  when  he 
saw  Skene  arrive.  Farquhar  repeated  the  story  for 
their  benefit. 

"  They  had  got  all  their  examination  fees,  and  instead 
of  paying  them  into  the  College  they  pooled  the  lot. 
So  they  are  well  financed.  They  took  the  fast  pas- 
senger train  to   Peshawar,   travelling  third  class  in 

1  Those    who,    following    the    example    of    the    Prophet 
Muhammad,  have  fled  from  their  homes  under  oppression. 
F 


66  ABDICATION 

separate  compartments,  and  got  out  at  Serai  Kala. 
At  Haripur  their  yam  was  that  they  were  AHgarh 
students  on  the  way  out  to  collect  money  from  the 
Nawab  of  Amb.  They  dodged  the  police  post  at  a 
place  called  Kirplian  and  crossed  the  Indus  a  mile  or 
two  up-stream  in  a  boat.  Dean  has  sent  an  Inspector 
to  Darband.  They  are  still  with  the  Hindustani 
fanatics." 

"  Did  they  ever  give  you  the  idea  of  being  hostile  ?  " 
Skene  asked. 

"  Not  in  the  least.  One  or  two  of  them  were  a  bit 
mugra.'^  Jemal  Khan,  for  instance,  might  have  sat 
for  the  model  of  a  zealot,  an  intense-looking  youth. 
But  on  the  whole  I  should  describe  them  as  a  rather 
sporting  lot.  Niaz  Ali  played  a  good  game  of  hockey. 
Zahur  Muhammad  was  the  best  slow-bowler  in  our 
team,  a  real  head-bowler.  In  a  month  or  two  he  would 
have  passed  his  B.Sc." 

Skene  remembered  being  bowled  by  Niaz  Ali  in 
the  match  between  the  College  and  the  Station. 

"It  is  a  most  extraordinary  thing.  They  are  the 
last  fellows  in  the  world  whom  I  should  have  thought 
would  have  turned  out  seditious." 

"  But  don't  you  find  it  is  generally  your  young  rebel 
who  has  most  backbone  in  him  ?  "  Riley  asked  him. 

Hill  looked  at  Farquhar  to  see  how  he  would  receive 
this  sentiment,  "  a  pucca  Rilepsm,"  and  hateful  to 
orthodoxy.  The  Principal  of  Thompsonpur  College 
was  a  good  fellow  and  very  sure  of  himself.  His  strong 
clean-cut  features  and  the  frankness  of  his  glance  pro- 
claimed it.  Riley  thought  of  him  as  the  kind  of  young 
man  to  whom  his  squire,  or  his  rector,  or  the  master 
of  his  College  would  have  given  a  beautiful  certificate. 

1  Sullen. 


THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM  6t 

The  popular  novelist  generally  provides  such  a  hero  a 
convenient  villain  to  thrash  in  the  second  or  third 
chapter.  Farquhar  was  an  athlete.  He  had  been  a 
Blue  at  Cambridge.  He  was  also  endowed  with  every 
mental  gift  necessary  to  success — a  category  by  the 
way  in  which  imagination  is  not  infrequently  omitted. 

Riley's  view  of  the  young  malcontent  had  not  struck 
Farquhar  before.  His  silence  expressed  disapproval. 
He  did  not  like  his  students  to  be  politically  minded. 

"  After  all,"  Riley  continued,  "  the  youngster  must 
have  good  stuff  in  him  who  believes  his  religion  is  in 
danger  and  is  ready  to  make  sacrifices  for  it." 

This  was  too  much  for  Hill. 

"  Does  he  believe  it?  "  he  objected.  "  And  what  is 
he  giving  up?  He  has  made  a  picturesque  dramatic 
exit.  Curtain — applause — yells  from  the  gallery.  In 
the  next  act  he  is  the  hero  on  the  stage,  and  has  nothing 
to  do  but  to  pose.     It's  all  play-acting." 

"  You  don't  know  these  students,"  Riley  said. 
"  They  are  genuine  enough.  They  go  to  bed  every 
night  worrying  about  the  Khilafat  and  wake  up  angry 
in  the  morning.  They  believe  Islam  is  being  attacked. 
Jemal  Khan  thinks  he  would  be  a  skunk  if  he  did  not 
go  to  a  Muhammadan  country  and  fight  for  his  religion. 
Nothing  outside  the  Koran  counts." 

"  And  do  you  really  believe  he  wiU  fight  ?  " 

"  He  probably  thinks  he  will.  Anyhow,  I  prefer 
Jemal  Khan  to  your  spoon-fed  youth  who  laps  up  the 
education  we  dish  up  for  him  as  if  it  were  jam." 

"  What  you  say  about  Jemal  Khan  may  be  true — 
up  to  a  point,"  Farquhar  conceded  generously;  "  but 
my  experience  is  that  the  majority  of  students  to  whom 
this  agitation  appeals  are  wasters." 

"  Banarsi  Das,  for  instance,"  Skene  interposed.     His 


68  ABDICATION 

sympathies  were  with  Riley,  but  he  wished  he  were  not 
so  provocative.  "  By  the  way,"  he  added,  "  what  has 
happened  to  Banarsi  Das?  " 

"  He  never  turned  up." 

"Did  he  write?  " 

"  Not  a  word." 

"  Grateful  youth." 

"  I  will  ask  Dean  if  he  has  heard  anything,"  Riley 
said.  The  C.I.D.  man  was  discovered  at  a  neighbouring 
table  discussing  high  politics  with  Wace-Holland,  the 
Divisional  Commander,  and  Osborne,  his  G.S.O.I. 
The  three  men  were  drawn  into  the  circle.  Three  more 
long  drinks  were  ordered  to  lay  the  dust  in  the  throat. 
Everyone  seemed  interested  in  the  muhajarin. 

Dean's  latest  news  was  that  a  tehsildar  had  been 
sent  over  the  border  into  the  Nawab  of  Amb's  territory 
to  negotiate  with  them  to  come  back.  They  were 
offered  a  free  pardon,  which  they  refused  with  scorn. 
Their  flag  was  still  high.  Jemal  Khan  was  spokesman. 
They  were  going  to  Kabul,  he  said,  and  on  to  Constan- 
tinople to  fight  for  the  Turks.  India  was  dar-ul-harh. 
They  were  the  subjects  of  God  and  not  of  Great  Britain. 
It  was  their  duty  to  defend  the  honour  of  God's  house. 
Otherwise  how  could  they  show  their  faces  to  God. 

"  By  Jove,"  Riley  exploded.  "  Isn't  that  damned 
fine !  " 

"  Gas  and  vapourings,"  Hill  muttered  inaudibly  to 
Farquhar.  He  did  not  want  the  General  to  hear.  But 
Farquhar  was  unresponsive.  He  was  fond  of  his 
students  and  he  had  an  uncomfortable  feeling  that  his 
College  was  disgraced. 

"  I  wish  we  could  rope  in  some  of  their  Islamic 
spirit,"  the  General  said.  "  We'll  be  fools  if  we  don't 
let  the  Turks  down  easily." 


THE   CAVE   OF  ADULLAM  69 

Riley  looked  at  the  General  with  eyes  of  affection. 
He  had  served  under  Wace-Holland  and  he  knew 
the  General  liked  him.  The  young  man  and  the  old 
had  a  great  deal  in  common.  The  contemporaries  of 
both  considered  them  a  little  mad. 

"  But  what  about  Banarsi  Das?  "  Skene  asked. 

"  Banarsi  Das?  "  Dean  repeated  the  name  as  if  he 
were  trying  to  recall  its  associations.  "  Banarsi  Das. 
Oh  yes  !  I  meant  to  tell  you.  I  fancy  I  saw  your 
young  proteg6  at  the  railway  station  one  day  early 
last  week.  I  noticed  him,  because  he  was  trying  to 
avoid  me ;  it's  a  habit  with  malefactors.  But  I  doubt 
if  he  still  calls  himself  Banarsi  Das.  He  was  wearing 
a  black  Astrakhan  cap  with  the  badge  of  the  star  and 
crescent  on  it  and  baggy  Muhammadan  trousers.  Not 
a  bad  disguise  for  a  Hindu." 

"  Can  you  imagine  Banarsi  Das  brandishing  the 
sword  of  Islam?  " 

"  It  is  quite  on  the  cards  that  he  went  off  with  the 
muhajarin  and  that  he  is  now  at  Asmas  with  the 
Hindustani  fanatics.  If  so  it  will  be  difficult  to  trace 
him.  They  all  changed  their  names  when  they  crossed 
the  Indus.  The  only  one  the  tehsildar  could  vouch  for 
was  Jemal  Khan." 

"  Banarsi  Das  will  be  about  as  much  use  to  them  as 
a  sick  headache,"  Skene  said.  "  But  what  are  their 
tactics  now?  " 

"  The  same  old  war-cry — Insurrection  or  Flight.  No 
Moslem  should  live  under  non-Moslem  rule.  That  is  for 
India's  consumption.  Over  the  border  they  are  work- 
ing up  the  Mohmunds  and  the  tribes  of  Buner  and  Swat. 
They  hope  the  Afghans  are  coming  in.  The  Turks  are 
flattering  them  and  promising  them  money.  There  are 
two  Bimbashis  at  Asmas  now,  preachmg  the.  Jehad. 


70  ABDICATION 

The  fanatics  think  themselves  the  centre  of  the  universe, 
which  is  to  be  forcibly  converted  to  Islam." 

This  was  altogether  too  much  for  Hill.  It  bordered 
on  romance.  The  bubble  Dean  blew  appeared  to  him 
so  inflated  and  iridescent  that  he  was  provoked  to  put 
a  finger  through  it.  "  You  don't  mean  to  say,"  he 
drawled,  "  that  you  G.I.D.  men  are  going  to  raise  that 
futile  old  bogey  of  the  Hindustani  fanatics  again. 
They  have  been  always  flitting  about  at  the  back  of 
the  stage.  My  grandfather  used  to  talk  of  them,  but 
what  have  they  done?  " 

"  They've  been  mixed  up  in  every  frontier  rising 
since  the  Ambeyla  show  in  '68.  They  are  not  danger- 
ous as  a  fighting  force ;  they  are  wire-pullers — financed 
by  Moslems  in  India,  mostly  Wahabis — organisations 
in  the  Punjab,  the  U.P.  and  Bengal,  ramifications  from 
Panipat  to  Dacca,  a  perennial  stream  of  malcontents 
trickling  through,  missionaries  collecting  funds.  Fana- 
ticism is  an  hereditary  trade  with  them." 

But  Hill  would  not  be  convinced.  He  described  them 
as  a  sponging,  lotus-eating  breed  of  fanatics,  too  lazy  to 
cultivate,  dependent  on  the  alms  of  the  pious. 

**  You  wouldn't  have  called  the  Hindustanis  futile," 
Wace-HoUand  said,  "  if  you  had  been  at  Shabkadr  in 
1915.  I  counted  twelve  of  them  laid  out  among  the 
dead.  You  remember  them,  Osborne;  they  were 
clothed  in  black  from  head  to  foot." 

"  Yes,  they  didn't  strike  me  as  an  emasculated  breed. 
You  have  heard  of  the  Ghazi  rush  at  Kot-Kai.  Forty- 
eight  of  them  fell  in  the  attack  on  the  post — the  most 
gallant,  hopeless  affair." 

"  Intoxicated  with  bhang,"  Hill  suggested.  "  The 
more  of  them  who  obtain  the  joys  of  martyrdom  the 
better." 


THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM  71 

"  It  doesn't  much  matter  what  they  are  intoxicated 
with,  call  it  bhang  or  religion.  The  point  is  their  heads 
are  swollen  with  Pan-Islamism.  They  are  working 
this  Khilafat  business  for  all  they  are  worth." 

"  I  hear  the  Ghazis  have  a  leather  cannon  at  Asmas, 
and  Mustapha  Kemal  has  promised  them  a  couple  of 
machine-guns." 

"  You're  a  bit  of  a  wag,  Hill;  but  this  is  not  all 
Gilbert  and  Sullivan.  The  Ghazi  is  the  fermenting 
agent;  that's  all.  And  he's  out  for  Jehad.  He 
hasn't  had  such  a  chance  for  a  century.  Not  even  in 
'57.  Every  decent  Muhammadan  in  India  is  angry 
and  sore  and  believes  that  we  have  betrayed  Islam. 
This  is  the  feeling  on  both  sides  of  the  frontier,  and  in 
Afghanistan.  Half  these  tribesmen  believe  that  the 
British  are  at  Mecca  and  Medina  and  are  going  to 
set  up  liquor  shops  in  the  Kaaba.  Of  course,  they 
hate  the  Sherif  like  poison,  and  say  we  have  bought 
him,  and  that  he  is  a  Kafir  and  that  the  Haj  means 
nothing,  now  the  Holy  Places  are  in  the  hands  of 
unbelievers." 

"  Is  not  the  Sherif  of  Mecca  a  lineal  descendant  of 
the  Prophet?  "  HiU  asked. 

"  You  tell  them  that,"  said  Wace-Holland.  "  Nothing 
maddens  them  more." 

"  By  the  way,"  Dean  continued,  "  the  fanatics  have 
got  another  settlement  at  Charmakand  on  the  Afghan 
border.  They  get  their  suppUes  through  Mardan. 
Charmakand  is  to  be  the  tribal  base  for  operations  on 
Peshawar."  The  G.I.D.  man  told  of  mysterious 
comings  and  goings  on  the  frontier,  and  unwove  a  nexus 
of  intrigue,  tribal  jealousies,  traffic  in  fatwas  and  rifles, 
wandering  faqirs  plying  between  Kabul  and  Delhi  and 
Deoband.    Certain  names,  vaguely  famiUar  to  Riley, 


72  ABDICATION 

punctuated  this  talk.  The  General  asked  some  perti- 
nent questions  about  the  Haji  Sahib  of  Turganzai,  the 
Jandiwalla  Mullah,  Nasrulla  Khan,  and  the  Bulbul  of 
Sehwan.  They  talked  of  ObeiduUah's  Army  of  God, 
the  Ghahb-nameh,  and  the  Silk  Letter  Conspiracy 
Case.  Dean  could  afford  to  be  communicative.  It 
was  all  past  history  now.  Even  Hill  was  interested. 
But  Skene  had  fallen  into  one  of  his  trance-like  reveries, 
sitting  back  in  his  chair,  his  glass  between  his  knees, 
staring  into  the  blanket  of  dust,  through  which  the 
moon  of  Rajab  appeared  dimly  Hke  an  onion  suspended 
in  a  loft.  He  heard  nothing.  He  had  a  picture  in  his 
mind  of  Banarsi  Das  among  the  fanatics,  in  the  camp 
under  the  mountain  of  caves,  the  timid,  faltering, 
academic  Banarsi  Das,  the  victim  of  some  gust  of  im- 
pulse, half  paralysed  with  fear,  and  longing  to  escape. 
He  would  be  drilling  perhaps  in  a  black  robe,  fingering 
strange  weapons,  listening  to  exhortations  in  a  strange 
tongue.  Smaller  sacrifice  than  his  had  earned  patriots 
the  rank  of  Lieutenant-Colonel  in  ObeiduUah's  Army 
of  God.  Skene  pictured  him  sitting  in  a  circle  by  a 
camp  fire  under  the  moon,  while  some  white-bearded 
mullah  expatiated  on  the  sweetness  of  death  by  the 
sword  of  the  infidel,  the  joys  of  paradise,  the  crown  of 
martyrdom.  A  sprig  of  camel- thorn  thrown  on  the 
embers  would  irradiate  the  faces  of  the  faithful,  and 
Banarsi  Das  would  shrink  back  into  the  shadow, 
scorched  by  the  flame  to  which  he  had  lent  his  feeble 
breath.  Then  he  thought  of  him  sobbing  over  the 
hfeless  body  of  Siri  Ram  at  Gandeshwar.  "  Poor  little 
devil !  I  am  sorry  for  him  if  he  is  in  the  Cave  of  Adul- 
1am.  I  wonder  if  the  muhajarin  are  still  there.  If  he 
isn't  knifed,  I  wouldn't  mind  betting  that  he  will  be 
the  first  of  the  gang  to  come  back." 


THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM  78 


II 

Skene's  picture  of  Banarsi  Das  in  Independent 
Territory,  though  inaccurate  in  detail,  was  true  in 
effect.  Indeed,  it  did  not  require  long  acquaintance 
with  the  friend  of  Siri  Ram  to  predict  that  his  days  on 
the  frontier  would  be  spent  in  tribulation.  After  a  day 
and  a  half  and  a  stifling  night  in  the  train,  with  thirty 
passengers  in  a  carriage  packed  as  thick  as  seeds  in  a 
pomegranate,  he  was  deposited  limply  on  the  platform 
at  Haripur.  According  to  the  pre-arranged  plan  the 
conspirators  met  in  a  house  where  a  guide  from  Asmas 
was  awaiting  them,  and  after  a  hurried  meal  started 
at  once  on  their  journey.  They  travelled  by  night. 
It  was  important  to  get  across  the  border  with  as  little 
delay  as  possible  and  to  avoid  being  seen. 

The  journey  by  night  from  Haripur  to  Darband, 
thirty  miles  including  the  detour  to  avoid  the  Police 
Post  at  Kirplian,  exhausted  Banarsi  Das.  His  throat 
was  parched;  his  feet  were  blistered;  and  his  head 
swam.  Two  miles  short  of  Kirphan  the  party  left  the 
road,  following  the  guide,  and  stumbled  for  hours 
through  rocky  nullahs.  The  soles  of  Banarsi  Das' 
tennis  shoes,  which  he  had  bought  for  the  journey  in 
the  bazar  at  Gopalpura,  became  loose  and  tripped  him 
up  at  every  unevenness  of  the  ground.  The  sharp 
stones  cut  them  to  strips.  He  left  one  in  a  prickly 
bush,  the  thorns  of  which,  as  he  tried  to  extract  it, 
tore  his  hands  and  feet.  The  other  he  tied  up  with 
string.  The  party  moved  on  relentlessly,  in  silence, 
with  barely  a  halt.  Banarsi  Das,  who  had  fallen  behind, 
every  now  and  then  bleated  to  them  to  stop.  He  was 
terrified  at  the  thought  of  being  cut  off  from  them  and 


74  ABDICATION 

lost.  In  every  bush  he  saw  a  poHceman,  or  a  tribes- 
man, or  a  dacoit.  The  glow  of  the  conspirator,  the 
spirit  of  adventure,  the  pride  in  being  a  rebel  died  in 
his  heart.  Then  after  a  time  fear  became  merged  in  a 
consuming  numbness.  He  was  only  conscious  of  being 
abysmally  tired.  His  body  felt  like  a  parcel  of  dry  skin 
wrapped  round  a  clammy  uncomfortable  tunnel  that 
stretched  from  his  stomach  to  his  throat.  The  lower 
plodding  part  of  him  was  detached  and  in  conflict  with 
the  upper  organism,  though  it  too  was  sensible  to  pain, 
and  received  a  new  wound  whenever  he  put  his  feet 
to  the  grovind. 

Just  before  it  was  Hght  they  reached  Darband. 
Here  an  emissary  of  the  fanatics  was  waiting  them  by 
the  gate  of  the  serai  outside  the  village.  Without  rising 
from  the  ground  he  called  out  to  them  the  password  of 
the  hour.  "  He  who  shall  equip  a  warrior  in  this  cause 
of  God  shall  receive  a  martyr's  reward."  And  the  guide 
answered  him,  "  His  children  dread  not  the  trouble  of 
the  grave,  nor  the  last  trump,  nor  the  day  of  judgment." 
At  this  the  figure  by  the  gate  rose  up  and  intoned, 
"Enter  now  the  company  of  the  faithful;  join  the 
divine  leader;  smite  the  infidel.  Everything  is  pre- 
pared." Then  one  by  one  they  bent  low  to  pass  through 
the  wicket  of  the  massive  doorway  into  the  courtyard. 
The  alcoves  on  either  side  of  the  arch  within  the  gate 
were  lighted  by  wicks  floating  in  shallow  vessels  of  oil. 
In  one  of  the  recesses  Banarsi  Das  noticed  a  merchant 
poring  over  his  accounts.  He  followed  the  muhajarin 
inside,  and  sinking  down  on  the  coping  of  the  verandah 
leant  wearily  against  a  pillar. 

Everything  was  early  astir,  and  in  the  dim  grey 
Hght  he  watched  the  objects  in  the  courtyard  take 
shape.    He  saw  the  pigeons  wake  in  their  niches  over 


THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM  75 

the  gate  and  the  bullocks  harnessed  to  the  wheel  at 
the  well.  Soon  the  yard  filled  with  sparrows.  They 
came  before  the  crows.  The  patient  kneeling  camels, 
which  never  slept,  regarded  the  world  impassively  as  if 
nothing  complex  could  disturb  the  eternal  scheme  of 
things.  The  tethered  horses  whinnied  and  dragged  at 
their  heel-ropes,  appealing  for  their  ration  of  young 
green  wheat,  which  had  been  cut  and  brought  in 
overnight.  In  the  far  corner  a  fire  was  burning  under 
a  thorn-tree,  and  the  savoury  smell  of  baked  chapatties 
mingling  with  the  acrid  smoke  of  the  camel-dung  fuel 
revived  Banarsi  Das,  and  linked  him  with  the  comfort- 
able world  from  which  he  was  rapidly  being  borne 
away — or  abducted,  as  it  seemed  to  him  at  the  moment. 
For  he  had  no  more  spirit  for  the  adventure,  and 
dreaded  intercourse  with  the  exacting  Jemal  Khan. 
He  watched  the  inuhajarin  spread  their  blankets  in  the 
cubicles  which  opened  into  the  verandah  on  all  sides 
of  the  square.  He  felt  an  ahen  among  them.  They 
seemed  to  him  strong  and  purposeful.  He  had  none 
of  their  fervour.  Many  of  them  even  now  were  bowed 
towards  Mecca,  rising  and  sinking  rhythmically  and 
striking  their  foreheads  on  the  stone,  as  if  that  appalling 
night  journey  had  not  been  enough  to  destroy  all 
elasticity  of  body  and  soul.  At  Gopalpura  Banarsi  Das 
had  been  taught  to  say  his  nimaz  by  Jemal  Khan.  He 
had  even  shown  application  in  the  drill.  These  postur- 
ings  meant  initiation  as  a  conspirator  among  the  elect 
and  woke  no  scruples  in  his  Aryan  soul.  Banarsi  Das 
had  no  religion.  He  had  long  forgotten  the  teachings 
of  his  Samaj.  Dayanand^  meant  no  more  to  him  than 
Mahomet.  It  was  true  in  his  case  that  AUahu  Akbar 
and  Om  were  one  name.  He  might  have  professed 
1  Swami  Dayanand,  the  founder  of  the  Arya  Samaj. 


76  ABDICATION 

Islam  at  Jemal  Khan's  instance  if  he  had  not  been 
afraid  of  the  ordeal  of  circumcision.  The  little  faith 
he  had  was  comfortless.  He  believed  in  nothing  unless 
it  were  the  punitive  resources  of  the  Almighty,  of  which 
he  collated  new  evidence  every  day  in  the  web  of  con- 
spiracy woven  by  mahce  and  circumstance  to  his 
hurt. 

A  servant  of  the  serai  brought  him  a  chatti  of  hot 
milk  with  which  he  filled  his  bowl.  The  food  that  was 
given  him  he  swallowed  greedily  in  gulps.  The  whole 
meal  did  not  last  many  seconds.  Then  he  rolled  him- 
self up  in  his  blanket  in  one  of  the  empty  cubicles  and 
prepared  to  sleep,  praying  that  he  might  be  forgotten 
and  left  alone.  He  removed  his  hansli,  the  rope  purse 
he  had  tied  to  his  waist,  and  the  Koran  attached  to  it, 
on  the  ninety-ninth  page  of  which  the  moulvi  of  Amir 
Khan's  mosque  had  written  in  Urdu,  and  Pushtu  and 
Persian  that  Abdul  Hakim — it  was  Banarsi  Das'  ahas 
in  Independent  Territory — was  a  messenger  of  the  faith- 
ful and  that  his  word  was  to  be  trusted.  This  rash 
attestation  was  Banarsi  Das'  passport.  It  would  carry 
him  safely  through  Buner  and  Swat,  and  secure  him 
the  hospitality  of  the  Mohmunds  and  the  Haji  Sahib 
of  Turangzai.  He  placed  the  Koran  beneath  his 
head,  and  held  the  purse  in  his  hand  under  the  blanket. 
The  custody  of  neither  conduced  to  sleep.  He  was 
afraid  of  thieves.  Every  footstep  in  the  verandah  was 
a  menace.  Above  all  he  feared  a  new  summons  to 
effort.  He  had  a  disquieting  suspicion  that  the  muJia- 
jarin  were  capable  of  starting  off  on  another  stage  of 
their  journey  before  night. 

He  was  unconscious  that  he  had  slept  when  at  three 
o'clock  he  saw  Jemal  Khan  walking  across  the  court- 
yard with  the  steps  of  a  covenanter  in  the  direction  of 


THE  CAVE   OF  ADULLAM  77 

his  cubicle.  "  Abdul  Hakim,  Abdul  Hakim,"  he  called. 
But  before  he  could  cross  the  threshold  Banarsi  Das 
was  moaning  that  he  was  sick,  and  that  he  must  see  a 
doctor.  His  blisters  were  festering.  He  had  fever. 
He  could  not  continue  the  march. 

"  We  must  not  stay  here,"  Jemal  Khan  answered 
quietly.  "  Before  an  hour  has  passed  we  will  be 
starting  for  Asmas." 

Banarsi  Das  prayed  that  he  might  be  left  in  the 
serai.  Only  a  day  or  two.  He  would  follow  the 
muhajarin  when  his  bhsters  were  healed. 

Jemal  Khan  warned  him  of  the  danger  of  the  police. 
"  The  ferry  is  but  three  miles  distant,"  he  said.  "  When 
once  we  are  across  the  Indus  we  will  be  safe." 

But  the  security  of  the  camp  of  the  Hindustani 
fanatics  no  longer  appealed  to  Banarsi  Das  as  it  had 
done  at  Gopalpura.  He  was  not  uphfted,  as  he  should 
have  been,  by  the  thought  that  he  was  a  "  warrior  in 
the  Cause  of  God."  The  first  night  march  in  the 
campaign  in  which  he  was  enhsted  had  exhausted  his 
spiritual  resources.  He  dreaded  being  dragged  up  to 
the  battle-line.  He  wished  he  had  joined  The 
Thompsonpur  Gazette. 

But  Jemal  Khan  was  insistent.  In  his  face  of  a 
covenanter  Banarsi  Das  read  a  dreadful  finality. 

"  We  will  put  your  things  on  a  camel,"  he  said. 
"  An  ass  will  be  found  to  carry  you  as  far  as  the 
ferry." 

"  Let  me  stay  here,"  Banarsi  Das  pleaded.  "It  will 
be  but  a  day  or  two,  until  my  blisters  are  healed." 

Jemal  Khan  told  him_  quietly  that  it  was  impossible 
that  he  should  be  left  behind  in  the  serai.  Not  one  of 
the  muhajarin  would  permit.  All  must  cross  the 
Indus. 


78  ABDICATION 

Banarsi  Das  repeated  that  he  was  unable  to  move 
as  his  feet  were  sore. 

Jemal  Khan  reproached  him,  "  With  the  Koran  on 
your  head  you  swore  that  you  were  ready  to  die.  Can 
not  you  even  endure  a  Httle  pain  ?  The  feet  of  all  are 
blistered." 

"  I  am  ready  to  die,  of  course,"  Banarsi  Das  replied, 
lapsing  into  English.  "  You  may  try  me.  I  do  not 
shrink  from  bloody  martyrdom;  but  for  the  moment 
I  cannot  walk." 

"  If  one  of  us  remains,  all  are  undone.  We  are 
watched  narrowly,  Abdul  Hakim.  In  these  days  even 
a  tree,  or  a  plant,  or  a  stone  is  an  informer." 

Banarsi  Das  protested  that  no  hint  of  the  nature  of 
this  mission  would  escape  him  if  he  fell  into  the  hands 
of  the  police.  Jemal  Khan  turned  away.  Banarsi 
Das  watched  him  cross  the  yard  as  if  he  were  approach- 
ing a  conventicle.  Each  short  dehberate  step  appeared 
to  the  convert  to  Islam  to  be  impelled  by  the  agency 
that  maUciously  watched  over  his  fortunes.  Jemal 
Khan  joined  a  group  of  the  muhajarin,  and  when  he 
spoke  to  them  they  all  looked  towards  the  open  door 
of  Banarsi  Das'  cubicle.  The  unhappy  inmate  felt 
that  he  had  lost  honour.  He  had  gained  nothing  by 
evasion.  Retreat  was  now  impossible.  He  was  already 
counted  one  of  the  weaker  vessels.  He  knew  that 
Jemal  Khan,  rather  than  leave  him  behind,  would  carry 
him  on  his  back  to  Asmas. 

An  hour  passed  and  Banarsi  Das  was  beginning  to 
hope  that  the  journey  had.  been  postponed,  when  he 
saw  the  guide  leading  a  white  donkey  to  his  corner  of 
the  serai. 


THE  CAVE   OF  ADULLAM  70 

III 

The  Bulbul  sat  in  the  shade  of  the  only  tree  on  the 
stony  track  leading  up  from  the  Indus,  waiting  for  the 
muhajarin.  The  villagers  of  Jahar  clustered  round 
him  in  a  half-circle  outside  the  shadow  and  watched  his 
every  movement  with  reverence.  He  was  telling  them 
that  they  were  idolaters  and  that  they  no  longer 
followed  the  path  of  God. 

"  You  complain  of  drought,"  he  said,  '*  but  do  you 
expect  the  copious  showers  of  heaven  to  fall  on  the 
crops  of  the  unfaithful.'*  And  he  pointed  to  the  votive 
rags  they  had  tied  to  the  thorn-bushes  on  the  path  that 
led  to  the  tomb  of  the  local  Pir. 

"  In  the  name  of  the  All  Merciful  be  it  known  to 
those  who  seek  the  way  of  God  that  it  is  forbidden  to 
make  offerings  to  any  prophet,  saint,  or  holy  man. 
Adorn  not  the  tombs  of  Pirs.  Seek  not  thus  the 
attainment  of  your  desires.  Would  you  attribute  to 
any  creature  the  attributes  of  the  All  Powerful  ?  Look 
not  to  this  departed  one  to  rule  the  accidents  of  life. 
Verily  your  supplications  are  in  vain.  The  Pirs  and 
holy  ones  are  helpless  and  ignorant,  even  as  ye,  in 
respect  to  the  laws  of  the  Universe.  The  book  bids 
us  pray  only  to  God." 

The  villagers  were  silent  under  the  rebuke.  No  one 
stirred  to  remove  the  red  tatters  on  the  thorn-bush. 
They  had  been  placed  there  by  pious  hands.  In  the 
night  perhaps  they  might  be  removed,  for  the  Bulbul 
was  generally  obeyed.  In  all  his  comings  and  goings 
he  imposed  some  new  exaction  on  the  faithful.  Very 
thorny  was  the  path  of  discipline  he  prescribed.  It 
was  said  of  him  in  the  village,  "  This  man  knows  the 
seventy-seven  thousand,  six  hundred  and  thirty-nine 


80  ABDICATION 

words  of  the  Koran ;  yet  he  would  have  us  let  the  lamp 
go  out  at  the  tomb  of  our  father."  A  true  successor 
of  Say y ad  Ahmed,  the  Wahabi  Prophet,  he  denounced 
all  forms  and  practices  that  had  come  into  existence 
since  the  writing  of  the  Holy  Book.  He  would  have 
extinguished  the  taper  in  the  graveyard,  banished 
drums  from  marriages  and  abolished  ceremonies  and 
festivals.  All  these  things  were  utterly  abominable 
to  God  and  His  Prophet.  To  the  warrior  in  the  cause 
of  Islam  he  forbade  any  adornment  other  than  the 
rifle  and  the  sword. 

In  Independent  Territory  the  Bulbul  was  revered 
as  a  militant  messenger  of  God.  He  was  an  old  man, 
thin  and  frail-looking,  with  a  long  white  beard,  but  far 
from  infirm.  His  wrists  were  no  thicker  than  sugar- 
cane, but  hard  as  steel.  The  rifle  flung  over  his  spare 
shoulders  did  not  seem  to  weigh  on  them  as  one  might 
have  thought.  Normally  you  would  take  him  for  a 
quiet,  meditative  ascetic.  He  had  a  habit  of  falling 
into  religious  trances,  and  in  these  unearthly  ecstasies 
he  was  seen  by  the  people  and  revered  as  one  com- 
muning with  God.  It  was  believed  that  he  held  mystic 
intercourse  with  the  blessed  Imams,  and  that  in  his 
dreams  the  beloved  daughter  of  Muhammad  and  her 
husband  visited  him,  and  saluted  him  as  their  son,  and 
bathed  him  in  sweet  essences.  He  was  a  Koresh,  of  a 
family  lineally  descended  from  the  Prophet.  To  his 
disciples  he  appeared  sometimes  as  a  quietist;  some- 
times as  a  scourge  of  the  ungodly;  and  he  owed  his 
influence  largely  to  these  alternating  moods  of  the 
mystic  and  the  man  of  action.  When  the  spirit  was 
aroused  in  him  you  would  say  that  fire  was  the  pre- 
dominant element  in  his  fragile  frame.  Sometimes 
when  he  addressed  his  followers,  more  especially  when 


t 


THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM  81 

rebuking  the  impenitent,  he  would  be  shaken  by  gusts 
of  passion,  which  were  the  more  terrible  by  contrast 
with  the  grave  taciturnity  which  they  disturbed.  At 
these  moments  one  could  imagine  him  leading  the 
Ghazi  rush  at  Shabkadr. 

On  the  Hindustani  side  of  the  border  the  Bulbul  had 
learnt  to  curb  his  reforming  zeal.  This  was  necessary 
for  the  increase  of  the  Army  of  God.  His  divine  mission 
was  to  preach  that  the  land  and  everything  that  grows 
on  it  is  accursed  where  the  infidel  rules.  In  Lahore, 
where  lie  had  been  an  unwilling  witness  of  the  Mohur- 
ram,  the  Puritan  in  him  had  revolted  at  the  excesses 
of  the  mob.  The  dramatisation  of  the  scene  at 
Kerbela  was  a  profane  mockery  in  his  eyes.  His  hand 
itched  to  strike  down  the  tazias  and  smite  the  mourners. 
He  longed  to  denounce  the  festival  with  all  its  mummery 
as  an  abomination  to  God.  So  in  Gopalpura  he  felt 
that  the  presence  of  Hindus  in  Amir  Khan's  mosque 
was  a  sacrilege.  In  his  heart  he  abhorred  the  Hindu- 
Moslem  entente  and  believed  that  he  had  the  power 
to  destroy  the  unholy  traffic.  He  refrained  because 
he  reminded  himself  that  his  first  duty  was  recruit- 
ment for  the  religious  war.  He  could  not  afford  to 
alienate  these  unregenerates  if  they  were  to  be  impressed 
into  the  Jehad. 

To  the  villagers  of  Jahar  he  spoke  in  low  and  earnest 
tones  and  bade  them  prepare  milk  and  bread  for  the 
muhajarin  who  were  already  on  the  road.  These 
young  men  were  following  the  path  of  God.  Every 
true  Moslem  should  be  ranged  against  the  infidel. 
"  Which  of  you  has  fired  a  shot  for  Islam  in  the  last 
twelve  months  ?  What  new  name  has  been  added  to  the 
roll  of  the  Shahids  ^  of  Jahar?  " 

^  Martyrs  in  the  cause  of  religion. 


82  ABDICATION 

"  The  Almighty  has  withdrawn  from  a  faint-hearted 
generation.  When  the  Moslems  with  singleness  of 
mind  join  in  the  holy  war  against  the  infidels  their 
Prophet  will  return  and  lead  them  to  victory." 

The  villagers  looked  at  each  other  with  questioning 
glances.  It  was  whispered  by  some  that  this  holy 
man  was  none  other  than  the  Imam  Mahdi. 

"  When  you  see  the  black  flags  coming  from  Khora- 
san,  go  forth,  for  with  them  is  a  Khalif,  the  Envoy  of 
God." 

The  verse  the  Bulbul  quoted  from  the  Koran  was 
aptly  inspired.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  road  lead- 
ing from  the  river,  and  as  he  spoke  the  black  flag  of  the 
muhajarin  appeared  in  the  bend.  The  covenanter, 
Jemal  Khan,  bore  it  proudly.  He  had  shaken  the  dust 
of  defilement  from  his  feet,  and  was  now  in  tribal 
territory.  He  was  no  longer  answerable  to  the  un- 
believer. This  was  the  first  stage  on  the  road  to 
victory. 

One  by  one  the  footsore  students  toiled  up  the  path 
to  the  plateau  where  the  Bulbul  sat  under  the  solitary 
tree  in  the  half-circle  of  villagers.  Banarsi  Das  was  the 
only  laggard.  The  holy  man  made  much  of  the 
muhajarin  and  commended  their  fidelity.  He  was  in 
one  of  his  gentlest  moods.  The  malik  of  the  village 
had  prepared  a  meal  for  them.  It  was  arranged  that 
they  should  rest  in  Jahar  a  little  while  before  continuing 
their  journey. 

After  the  meal  the  Bulbul  drew  Jemal  Khan  aside. 
"  Are  all  here  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  All  save  the  Hindu." 

"Are  all  to  be  trusted?" 

Jemal  Khan  was  silent,  revolving  in  his  mind  the 
case  of  a  possible  exception. 


THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM  83 

"  I  ask  you  this  question  because  I  have  received 
news  of  the  arrest  of  Nazir  Ullah  Shah  in  Gopalpura." 

Nazir  Ullah  Shah  was  an  agent  of  the  Hindustani 
fanatics.  The  Bulbul  then  told  Jemal  Khan  how  he 
himself  had  narrowly  escaped  the  same  fate  at  the  hands 
of  the  G.I.D.  in  Haripur.  Their  agents  had  long  been 
watched,  but  Nazir  Ullah  Shah  was  the  first  to  be 
arrested.  He  suspected  an  informer  among  the 
muhajarin. 

*'  What  of  the  Hindu  ?  "  he  asked. 

Jemal  Khan  again  reflected,  damning  the  absent 
convert  by  his  silence. 

"What  does  he  know?" 

"  He  knows  nothing,  only  our  names,  and  these  have 
been  published.  He  was  to  have  carried  the  letters 
back." 

It  is  significant  that  Jemal  Khan  spoke  of  Banarsi 
Das  as  if  he  were  always  non-existent. 

"Is  he  to  be  trusted?  " 

Jemal  Khan  maintained  his  purposeful  silence.  He 
was  well  able  to  weigh  the  effect  of  his  hesitation.  If 
the  Bulbul  suspected  Banarsi  Das  he  would  no  doubt 
kill  him.  Yet  Banarsi  Das  was  an  honest  agent;  of 
this  Jemal  Khan  was  convinced;  it  was  impossible 
that  he  could  be  a  spy.  But  he  judged  it  wiser  not  to 
give  the  Bulbul  this  impression.  Banarsi  Das  wa^ 
better  out  of  the  way.  An  impulsive,  emotional  weak- 
ling, who  already  repented  of  his  adventure,  was  a 
dangerous  associate.  Before  leaving  the  serai  he  had 
decided  that  he  was  not  to  be  trusted  with  the  letters. 

"  Speak  out  all  that  is  in  your  mind,  Jemal  Khan." 

"  I  do  not  trust  him,"  the  muhajir  said. 

It  was  a  ruthless  sentence,  Jemal  Khan  knew  that 
he  addressed  Banarsi  Das'  executioner.     He  told  the 


84  ABDICATION 

Bulbul  of  the  Hindu's  malingering  in  the  serai  and  his 
efforts  to  be  left  behind  in  British  territory. 

"  He  has  crossed  the  river?  Then  I  await  him  on 
the  road,"  the  Bulbul  said  sternly.  *'  Continue  now 
on  your  path.  The  Amir  of  the  Mujahidin  ^  has  made 
all  preparations." 

It  was  growing  dark  when  the  muhajarin  departed. 
Banarsi  Das  observed  them  from  the  spot  where  he 
was  hiding  on  the  cliff  above  the  road.  He  dared  not 
enter  the  village  until  they  had  gone.  He  was  in  a 
state  of  great  exhaustion,  since  the  owner  of  the  ass 
he  had  ridden  refused  to  let  it  pass  beyond  the  ferry. 
In  his  survey  of  Jahar  he  marked  the  tomb  of  the  Pir, 
the  first  building  on  the  right  as  one  approached  the 
hamlet  from  the  Indus.  He  had  seen  Jemal  Khan  and 
his  company  start  off  from  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
shrine,  and  he  concluded  that  it  was  a  resting-place  in 
which  hospitality  was  assured  to  one  of  the  muhajarin. 

It  was  quite  dark  when  he  limped  up  to  the  tomb, 
and  the  moon  of  Rajab  was  still  high  in  the  sky.  As 
he  stood  by  the  half-open  door  he  heard  low  voices 
inside.  He  entered  nervously  and  found  himself  in  a 
dark  cavernous  chamber.  A  fire  was  smouldering  in 
the  corner  and  he  could  distinguish  two  figures  bending 
over  it.     A  voice  addressed  him  out  of  the  gloom. 

"  Who  are  you?  " 

"  I  am  a  muhajir."  Banarsi  Das  had  been  assured 
that  the  word  would  prove  a  passport  on  the  road. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  " 

"  I  am  Abdul  Hakim." 

"  Where  are  you  going?  " 

*'  I  am  going  to  Asmas." 

1  Those  who  preached  Jehad,  i.  e.  the  Hindustani  fanatics. 


THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM  85 

*'  What  is  your  errand  ?  " 

"  I  am  under  the  orders  of  the  Amir  of  the  Mujahidin. 
My  companions  passed  through  the  village  an  hour 
ago.  I  am  sick  and  unable  to  walk.  Therefore  they 
left  me  behind." 

"  Why  have  you  come  to  Amb  ?  " 

"  We  are  going  to  Stambul  to  fight  for  the  Sultan." 

"  Do  you  not  come  from  Gopalpura?  " 

Banarsi  Das  admitted  it. 

"  Are  you  acquainted  with  Nazir  Ullah  Shah?  " 

Banarsi  Das  answered  quite  truthfully  that  he  had 
no  knowledge  of  Nazir  Ullah  Shah. 

Here  the  inquisitor  stirred  the  embers  of  the  fire 
and  watched  the  face  of  the  Hindu  closely.  It  was  only 
then  that  Banarsi  Das  discovered  that  he  was  in  the 
presence  of  the  Bulbul-i-Sehwan.  The  flickering 
embers  lit  up  the  features  of  his  companion,  a  magnifi- 
cent young  Shinwari,  the  finest  figure  of  a  tribesman 
Banarsi  Das  had  yet  seen. 

The  inquisitor  continued :  "  We  have  come  to  learn 
that  Nazir  Ullah  Shah  is  a  prisoner  in  the  hands  of  the 
infidel.     We  seek  his  betrayer." 

Up  to  this  point  the  Messenger  of  the  Faithful  had 
spoken  in  a  low  quiet  tone.  His  voice  now  became 
vibrant.  It  filled  the  tomb.  Banarsi  Das  was  reminded 
of  the  graveyard  of  Ain-ul-Quzzat.  He  felt  that  he 
was  in  the  presence  of  a  judge. 

"  Do  you  carry  any  written  script  to  prove  that  your 
word  may  be  relied  on?  "  the  inquisitor  asked  him 
sternly. 

Banarsi  Das  answered  :  "  My  passport  is  written 
in  my  Koran  on  the  ninety-ninth  page  by  the  hand  of 
Abdul  Rabi,  the  moulvi  of  Amir  Khan's  mosque." 

"  Where  is  this  Koran  ?  " 


86  ABDICATION 

"  It  is  not  with  me.  It  has  gone  on  in  front  with  the 
muhajarins'  baggage. 

Here  the  Bulbul  spoke  a  few  words  in  Pushtu  to  the 
Shinwari.  The  two  figures  bending  over  the  fire  assumed 
the  terrible  aspect  of  judge  and  executioner.  Banarsi 
Das  begged  them  to  send  a  messenger  to  overtake 
Jemal  Khan,  who  could  not  be  far  advanced  on  the 
road. 

"  Jemal  Khan  has  already  spoken  of  you,"  the 
Bulbul  said  in  a  voice  that  sounded  like  a  knell. 

It  was  not  until  he  heard  of  this  betrayal  that 
Banarsi  Das  was  overtaken  by  the  fear  of  death.  He 
heard  the  voices  by  the  fire  rise  and  fall.  They  were 
still  speaking  in  Pushtu.  Banarsi  Das  could  follow  the 
drift  of  what  they  were  saying  by  the  proper  names  that 
punctuated  the  conversation.  He  heard  the  word 
Yezid,  a  name  which  in  all  tongues  spoken  by  Moslems 
can  only  signify  a  traitor.  Then  he  heard  the  name  of 
Nazir  Ullah  Shah.  It  was  easy  to  construe  this  talk. 
-Nazir  UUah  Shah— Yezid— Hindu— C.I. D."  The 
words  were  as  significant  as  the  writing  on  the  wall. 

The  young  giant  rose  up  at  an  injunction  from  the 
Bulbul  and  approached  Banarsi  Das,  and  knelt  over 
him,  obscuring  the  embers  of  the  fire.  The  Hindu  felt 
the  strong  hands  of  the  Shinwari  searching  him  all 
over.  "  Lie  still,"  he  was  commanded,  "  or  your  hours 
in  this  world  will  be  shorter  than  is  appointed. *  Rough 
fingers  were  inserted  between  his  waist  and  the  hansli  ; 
they  unfastened  the  buckle  and  the  rupees  rolled  out 
on  the  floor.  "  Now  sit  up."  Banarsi  Das  was  being 
stripped.  He  was  naked  now  from  the  waist  up. 
The  Shinwari's  fingers  exploring  his  bare  chest  touched 
an  object  which  he  had  forgotten.  The  discovery 
doubled  his  apprehensions.     A  strong  voice  echoed  in 


THE  CAVE   OF  ADULLAM  87 

the  darkness  over  his  head  like  the  pronouncement  of 
doom.  "  Assuredly  this  man  who  calls  himself  a 
muhajir  is  an  impostor.  He  is  wearing  the  Hindu's 
sacred  thread."  The  Shinwari  tore  the  emblem  from 
his  neck  and  dropped  it  on  the  floor. 

Banarsi  Das  was  too  overcome  to  give  an  account  of 
himself.  When  he  could  command  his  voice  he  wailed 
feebly,  "  It  is  my  disguise  to  deceive  the  Kafir  police. 
Inquire  of  Jemal  Khan." 

"  Jemal  Khan  has  spoken,"  the  Bulbul  said  with  the 
accents  of  finality. 

The  Shinwari  held  the  throat  of  his  victim  between 
the  fingers  and  thumb  of  one  hand.  With  the  other 
hand  he  removed  the  Astrakhan  cap  with  the  badge 
of  the  star  and  crescent  on  it,  the  muhajir  s  talisman 
and  emblem  of  pride,  and  ran  his  fingers  over  Banarsi 
Das'  hair.  Again  the  awful  voice  echoed  in  the  roof 
of  the  tomb:  "This  pious  Mussalman,  O  Messenger 
of  the  Faithful,  has  adopted  the  hodi  of  the  Hindu." 

Tugging  at  the  tuft  of  hair  in  the  centre  of  the 
crown  which  differentiated  Banarsi  Das  from  certain 
less  fortunate  ones  of  his  race,  the  Shinwari  nearly 
lifted  the  wretched  youth  from  the  ground.  Then  he 
drew  his  knife  from  his  belt  and  sawed  at  the  hodi  until 
he  had  severed  every  hair.  Banarsi  Das,  released  by 
the  operation  from  the  position  in  which  he  was  sus- 
pended, collapsed  and  fell  back  quivering  on  the  floor. 
He  had  shut  his  eyes,  expecting  the  blade  at  his  throat. 
Now  he  lay  flat  on  his  stomach  with  his  hands  clasping 
the  back  of  his  head,  as  if  he  expected  a  blow.  He  was 
subject  to  further  physical  examination.  He  had 
passed  beyond  hope,  and  almost  beyond  fear,  when  he 
discovered  that  he  was  alone  in  the  tomb. 

It  did  not  at  once  dawn  on  Banarsi  Das  that  he  was 


88  ABDICATION 

not  dead,  that  he  might  yet  Hve.  He  remembered 
now  that  the  stony  down-hill  track  to  the  Indus  was 
less  than  a  mile.  If  he  could  cross  the  river  and  regain 
British  Territory,  no  one  could  compel  him  to  return. 
He  raised  himself  with  an  effort,  and  stumbling  to  the 
door  felt  for  a  lock  or  bolt.  It  was  barred  from  the 
outside.  He  peered  through  the  wide  chink  and  saw 
the  two  servants  of  Islam,  the  old  man  and  the  young, 
conversing  in  the  moonlight :  the  old  man  with  his  long 
white  beard  touching  his  bosom,  and  his  face  of  a  falling 
axe,  and  the  young  man,  oiled  and  curled  like  a  Lothario, 
a  martial  youth,  beautifully  proportioned,  with  the 
bearing  of  a  Sohrab.  Both  had  rifles  slung  over  their 
shoulders.  Banarsi  Das  could  hear  their  voices  but 
not  their  words.  He  knew  that  they  were  deciding  his 
fate. 

He  thought  of  calling  for  help.  If  he  cried  loud 
enough  the  lumbar dar  of  the  village  might  hear  him. 
But  he  dared  not  raise  his  voice.  His  cries  would 
anger  the  Wahabi.  If  he  provoked  these  servants  of 
Islam  they  might  return  and  complete  their  work. 
And  the  villagers,  even  if  they  wished  to  save  him, 
would  be  powerless.  One  had  only  to  look  at  the 
Messenger  of  the  Faithful  to  realise  that  authority 
was  crowned  in  him.  The  young  Shinwari  was  his 
slave. 

The  only  hope  for  Banarsi  Das  lay  in  their  contempt. 
They  might  even  now  depart  and  leave  him  in  the  tomb. 
What  harm  could  he  do  them?  Why  should  they 
return?  His  heart  sank  again  when  he  remembered 
the  rupees.  The  Shinwari  would  not  leave  them 
behind.  He  turned  back  into  the  tomb  and  began 
collecting  them  as  if  they  were  safer  in  a  heap.  He 
knelt  over  the  spot  where  he  had  been  stripped,  and 


THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM  89 

searched  the  floor  with  his  hands.  The  action  was 
mechanical ;  his  intelhgence  responded  only  to  sensa- 
tion ;  he  had  ceased  to  think. 

Once  more  he  heard  the  voice  of  his  executioners 
outside.  The  bolt  of  the  door  was  withdrawn.  The 
Shinwari  appeared  in  the  entrance  with  a  torch 
Banarsi  Das,  as  he  bent  over  the  floor,  dared  not  look 
up  into  his  face ;  he  had  seen  the  man's  eyes  while  he 
was  being  searched.  This  light  was  more  terrible  than 
the  darkness.  "  Complete  your  task,"  he  was  com- 
manded by  the  voice  from  the  door,  and  he  obeyed 
mechanically.  When  the  rupees  were  collected  in  a 
b'^ap,  the  Shinwari  entered,  gathered  them  up  and 
committed  them  to  his  belt.  He  then  picked  up  the 
Hindu's  hodi  and  sacred  thread.  Again  Banarsi  Das 
felt  the  hand  at  his  throat.  The  Shinwari  thrust  the 
tuft  of  hair  into  his  mouth.  "  Eat  it,  accursed  spy," 
he  said.  Then  he  lifted  him  up  and  carried  him  out 
of  the  tomb. 

The  moon  had  set.  It  must  have  been  past  midnight 
when  the  Shinwari,  preceded  by  the  Messenger  of  the 
Faithful,  carried  Banarsi  Das  down  the  steep  slope  to 
the  Indus.  He  carried  him  under  one  arm,  and  the  butt 
of  his  rifle  rapped  the  Hindu's  naked  back  and  head. 
A  rope  dangling  from  the  tribesman's  shoulders  became 
entangled  in  Banarsi  Das'  feet.  He  was  convinced  that 
they  were  going  to  hang  him.  When  he  heard  the 
rhythmic  murmur  of  the  stream  he  prayed  that  he 
might  be  drowned. 

The  Shinwari  dropped  him  on  the  bank  of  the 
river  beside  a  dark  object  which  became  associated 
in  Banarsi  Das'  mind  with  his  dispatch.  It  was 
a  skin-raft,  two  inflated  goat-skins  and  a  log.  Some 
villager  would  be  deprived  of  his  ferry  in  the  morning. 


90  ABDICATION 

Nevertheless  it  was  commandeered  by  the  faithful  as  a 
conveyance  for  the  Hindu.  It  was  explained  to 
Banarsi  Das  that  he  had  become  a  messenger  of  Islam, 
though  not  in  the  way  he  had  chosen.  His  carcase 
would  serve  as  an  example  to  the  slaves  of  the  infidel, 
spies  and  informers,  whether  it  reached  them  alive  or 
dead. 

"  What  does  he  know?  "  the  Wahabi  said  to  the 
tribesman.  "  Send  him  back  to  the  Kafirs.  He  can 
betray  nothing  that  is  not  already  known." 

The  Shinwari  bound  his  hands  together  and  pinioned 
him  to  the  raft.  The  cords  were  drawn  tightly  round 
his  waist  and  back,  only  his  feet  were  left  free.  He 
moaned  piteously  as  they  pushed  him  out  into  the 
stream,  "  I  did  not  expect  this  of  God." 


IV 

Banarsi  Das'  first  thought  was  that  he  would  drown. 
His  feet  were  sucked  under  the  raft.  For  a  moment  his 
head  was  submerged  as  he  was  swung  round  in  a  swirling 
eddy.  He  regained  equilibrium  with  a  struggle, 
pressing  the  back  of  his  neck  on  one  skin  and  the  ball 
of  his  foot  on  another. 

He  had  not  been  in  the  water  many  minutes  when 
he  was  carried  past  the  ferry.  As  he  was  borne  into 
the  bank  he  saw  a  man  sitting  by  a  fire  outside  a  house 
where  he  had  rested  on  the  road.  He  shouted  out  to 
him  for  help.  The  man  stood  up  to  observe  him  pass, 
as  if  he  were  a  spectacle,  and  then  sank  down  to  enjoy 
the  warmth  of  the  blaze  and  his  own  thoughts. 

Banarsi  Das  saw  no  more  men  or  houses,  only  distant 
lights  twinkling  in  the  hills.     He  was  borne  through 


THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM  91 

inhospitable  country.  Sometimes  he  revolved  for  an 
eternity  in  a  circle,  confronted  by  objects  that  appeared 
vaguely  familiar,  as  if  seen  in  a  dream,  restored  again 
and  again  to  the  stream  by  the  backwater  at  the  point 
in  the  current  where  it  had  sucked  him  away.  Many 
times  he  was  washed  into  the  bank,  or  stranded  on 
rushy  islands.  The  first  time  the  raft  ran  ashore  he 
found  hope  in  the  obstruction.  He  spent  an  hour  once 
on  a  sand-pit.  But  instinct  warned  him  that  the 
farther  he  was  carried  from  Independent  Territory  the 
better  his  chance  of  escape.  In  shallow  water  he  found 
that  he  could  navigate  the  raft,  propelling  it  with  his 
feet;  but  after  an  hour  or  two  in  the  river  he  was 
numb  to  sensation.  Nor  was  he  revived  at  dawn.  He 
was  drifting  he  knew  not  whither.  Sometimes  the 
Black  mountains  approached  him ;  at  other  times  they 
receded ;  at  other  times  he  was  racing  towards  the  peak 
of  Mahaban.  Half  an  hour  after  daylight  he  became 
aware  of  firing  down-stream.  It  might  be  Armageddon. 
But  Banarsi  Das'  dramatic  instinct  was  paralysed. 
Nothing  could  add  to  the  cataclysm  in  which  he  was 
involved,  not  even  the  trump  of  Doom. 

Round  the  bend  of  the  river  the  firing  became  more 
intense.  He  believed  that  he  was  entering  the  theatre 
of  war  at  which  the  Bulbul  and  Jemal  Khan  had  hinted 
darkly.  No  doubt  the  Moslem  host  had  already  joined 
battle  with  the  British,  and  the  rattle  of  musketry  he 
heard  was  the  Afghan  army  at  grips  with  the  infidel. 
The  Hindustani  fanatics  would  be  in  the  front  of  the 
battle-line.  The  stream  might  deposit  him  as  an  offer- 
ing to  either  army.  He  was  already  dead  and  beyond 
curiosity  or  care.  He  was  warmed  by  no  hope;  yet 
he  was  not  frightened  as  he  had  been  in  the  tomb  when 
the  Shinwari  knelt  over  him  and  held  his  throat,  or 


92  ABDICATION 

at  the  dreadful  moment  when  he  had  been  pinioned  to 
the  raft. 

Then,  as  the  stream  bore  him  rapidly  to  the  scene  of 
battle,  the  discovery  that  the  numbing  paralysis  he 
felt  in  all  his  limbs  was  not  due  to  fear  renewed  his 
pride.  "  I  am  playing  a  noble  part,"  he  told  himself. 
"  This  is  the  crown  of  martyrdom."  And  with  this 
warming  thought  there  returned  the  physical  craving 
for  survival.  The  rays  of  the  sun  on  his  head  and 
shoulders  and  back  helped  to  restore  him,  and  he  dragged 
a  submerged  foot  on  to  the  raft.  He  was  now  a  spectator 
of  the  drama  in  which  he  played  a  wonderful  part — 
the  sole  spectator,  it  was  true,  but  the  larger  audience 
necessary  for  his  apotheosis  could  not  be  far  distant. 
Whoever  they  might  be,  they  would  witness  the  next 
act.  Banarsi  Das  wondered  if  they  would  stop  the 
battle.  He  thought  he  heard  firing  behind  him,  but 
the  banks  of  the  river  were  high  and  he  was  hidden 
from  the  host.  As  hope  revived  he  was  again  a  prey 
to  fear.  He  was  afraid  of  being  shot  at  from  the  bank, 
or  being  dragged  out  of  the  stream  alive,  only  to  be 
dispatched  on  dry  land.  The  thing  he  feared  most 
was  falling  into  the  hand  of  the  Afghans.  No  doubt 
the  muhajarin  would  be  with  them.  Possibly  the 
terrible  Shinwari  would  stand  over  him  again  and 
pass  sentence.  He  quailed  at  the  thought  of  the 
tribesman's  fiery  merciless  eye  and  the  rifle  slung 
behind  his  back.  He  had  been  equipped  for  battle. 
Banarsi  Das  had  forgotten  politics,  but  for  the  moment 
the  personal  involved  the  racial  issue.  He  remembered 
the  Bulbul's  prediction  in  the  graveyard  by  the  Mosque 
of  Ain-ul-Quzzat  and  wondered  if  the  Feringhis  were 
being  driven  into  the  sea.  Was  this  the  day  on  which 
the  Indian  would  receive  those  natural  promptings  of 


THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM  98 

the  heart  which  told  him  that  the  hour  of  his  deUverance 
had  come  ?  Banarsi  Das  hoped  that  it  was  not.  Some- 
how the  old  dream  had  no  longer  any  comfort  in  it.  He 
hoped  that  the  Indus  would  deliver  him  into  the  custody 
of  the  British.  He  did  not  ask  himself  why  he  wanted 
to  fall  into  the  hands  of  his  oppressors.  Only  by  some 
curious  and  inconsistent  freak  of  fancy  his  vision  of 
a  liberator  had  assumed  the  bulky  and  benevolent  shape 
of  Skene. 

The  crack  of  a  rifle  a  few  yards  above  his  head  ter- 
rified him.  He  slid  back  into  the  water  with  an  instinct 
for  cover,  and  his  two  legs  were  sucked  under  the  raft. 
He  had  been  revolving  eternally,  he  thought,  in  a  slow 
backwater  under  the  bank,  when  he  first  heard  human 
voices.  The  accents  were  muffled  and  indistinct  and 
they  were  succeeded  by  a  volley  of  rifle  fire.  In  the 
silence  that  followed  he  listened  intently,  divided 
between  hope  and  fear.  If  the  men  on  the  bank  spoke 
Pushtu  he  felt  that  he  was  doomed,  whereas  an 
English  word  of  command  meant  release  and  safety. 
He  heard  the  voice  again.  This  time  the  accents  were 
clearer.  Banarsi  Das'  heart  fell.  The  man  was  speak- 
ing in  a  strange  Asiatic  tongue,  neither  Urdu  nor  Pushtu 
nor  Hindi.  Again  the  volley  was  repeated.  Then 
another  louder  voice  was  heard  speaking  in  a  tone  of 
command,  still  in  the  strange  unknown  tongue,  but 
unmistakably  English.  It  sounded  a  little  impatient 
at  first;  then,  when  the  first  voice  joined  in  and  was 
put  through  some  sort  of  catechism,  it  broke  into 
laughter.  The  pall  of  tragedy  had  lifted.  Banarsi 
Das  called  out  from  his  watery  bier  to  the  unseen 
presence  ashore. 

"  Sir,  I  am  Hindu  gentleman  suffering  from  very 
serious  catastrophe." 


94  ABDICATION 

In  a  moment  the  bank  was  lined  with  little  brown 
men  with  Mongol  faces.  Banarsi  Das'  first  thought  was 
that  his  nightmare  journey  on  the  accursed  craft  had 
landed  him  in  Japan  or  China.  Nothing  was  impossible 
in  his  dislocated  universe.  The  little  men  wore  khaki 
helmets  and  khaki  shirts  and  shorts,  and  bandoliers 
like  English  soldiers.  They  were  armed  with  rifles 
and  kukris,  or,  as  Banarsi  Das  said  in  describing  the 
scene  afterwards  to  Amba  Pershad,  with  "  the  bloody 
panoply."  Yet  there  was  nothing  menacing  in  the 
appearance  of  this  young  draft.  They  looked  friendly 
and  innocent.  Some  were  staring  open-mouthed. 
Others  grinned  stupidly.  They  began  to  swarm  down 
the  bank,  and  as  the  raft  was  sucked  into  shore  by  an 
eddy  of  the  backwater  one  of  them  caught  hold  of  it. 
Banarsi  Das  was  hauled  up  on  to  the  dry  land.  The 
cords  that  bound  him  were  cut  by  the  Gurkhas'  kukris. 
Up  on  the  cliff  a  havildar  was  shouting,  "  Sahib, 
Sahib.  Here  is  a  trussed  Babu.  We  found  him 
drowning." 

The  god  out  of  the  machine  bending  over  Banarsi  Das 
was  filled  with  pity.  The  convert  to  Islam  looked 
up  into  the  face  of  a  thin  tanned  Englishman  not  unlike 
Riley.  Then  he  closed  his  eyes  and  shivered.  He  had 
not  a  strut  left  in  him  for  this  new  stage;  even  the 
sources  of  eloquence  were  dry ;  he  could  not  command 
a  metaphor.  After  the  terror  and  suspense  of  the  last 
few  hours  his  spirit  was  as  numbed  and  cramped  as  his 
limbs.  He  had  lost  the  power  of  them.  He  lay  inert 
at  the  bottom  of  the  cliff  as  if  he  had  been  crushed  in 
his  tumbling  universe. 

Banarsi  Das  was  naked  save  for  a  cloth  tied  round 
his  waist  and  the  one  dilapidated  tennis-shoe  which 
had  remained  faithful  in  extremities.     Coleridge,  the 


THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM  95 

god  out  of  the  machine,  felt  his  pulse  and  heart.  He 
told  his  Gurkhas  to  carry  him  up  the  bank  and  lay  him 
in  the  sangar.  "  We  must  find  something  to  wrap  him 
in,"  he  said.     "  Bring  the  colonel's  horse  blanket." 

On  the  crest  of  the  bank  Banarsi  Das'  carriers  en- 
countered another  Englishman,  Coleridge's  subaltern. 
"  Hullo  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  What  is  this?  Where's 
my  gun  ?  "  and  he  stared  at  the  pair  of  feet,  shod  and 
unshod,  which  preceded  the  procession.  Leeson,  or 
Porky  as  he  was  called  in  the  regiment,  had  so  much 
the  air  of  habitually  wearing  an  eye-glass,  that  anyone 
who  did  not  know  him  concluded  that  he  had  left  it 
behind.  When  the  head  of  Banarsi  Das  came  into 
view  he  whistled  softly  and  looked  as  if  the  suppositi- 
tious glass  had  dropped  from  his  eye.  "  What  is  it  ?  " 
he  asked. 

*'  Came  down  the  river,"  Coleridge  explained,  "  tied 
to  a  log,  trussed  like  a  fowl.  I  suppose  it's  the  work  of 
our  friends  of  Amb." 

"  Dacoits.  Like  their  impudence  sending  him  down 
to  us.  A  Hindu  bunniah,  or  more  likely  his  son." 
Porky  bent  over  the  limp  figure  and  examined  him  with 
the  same  care  as  the  god  out  of  the  machine.  "  Dirty 
dogs,"  he  exploded,  careless  of  metaphor.  "  I  hope 
we  get  the  job  of  smoking  them  out." 

A  volley  from  the  next  sangar  electrified  Banarsi  Das. 
He  winced  and  shivered  and  opened  his  eyes,  expecting 
to  see  the  ground  strewn  with  corpses.  But  there  was 
no  one  in  the  sangar  except  the  two  Englishmen  and 
the  Gurkha  havildar  picking  up  empty  rounds  and 
arranging  them  in  little  heaps. 

"  Have  the  English  been  victorious  ?  "  he  asked,  and 
then  fainted.  These  were  the  only  words  he  spoke  on 
the  field  of  Armageddon. 


96  ABDICATION 

"  No  wonder  he's  a  bit  behosh,"  said  the  god  out  of 
the  machine.  "  Poor  Httle  devil !  He  must  have  had 
a  rotten  time.  Where  did  he  pick  up  his  EngHsh? 
When's  that  ambulance  coming?  " 

"  Better  wait  till  this  section  is  finished.  It's  the 
last.     We  can  take  him  home  with  the  company." 

The  word  of  command  was  delivered  in  Gurkhali 
from  the  next  picquet. 

"On  the  mound,  left  flank,  eight  o'clock,  tree.  Five 
fingers  right.     Enemy  trench.     Range,  looo  yards." 

"  That's  better.     Chandardhoj  has  got  it  this  time." 

The  thickest-headed  N.G.O.  was  on  his  trial.  Cole- 
ridge turned  to  the  havildar  who  was  picking  up  empty 
rounds.  "  Your  picquet  would  have  been  scuppered, 
Jangbir  Thapa,"  he  said.  "  Your  fire  discipline  is 
putrid,  and  you  can't  judge  distance  for  nuts.  When 
you  go  home  on  leave,  can  you  tell  how  many  hundred 
yards  it  is  to  your  best  girl?  " 

"  Which  best  girl.  Sahib?  "  Jangbir  Thapa  grinned 
sheepishly. 

Banarsi  Das'  returning  wits  were  conscious  of  the 
same  jolly  laughter  that  had  emboldened  him  to  cry 
out  from  the  raft.  He  was  again  encouraged.  This 
officer,  he  thought,  cannot  have  a  care  in  the  world. 
It  is  clear  that  the  English  are  victorious.  Then  he 
resigned  himself  again  to  the  Stygian  stream.  He  rose 
and  fell  on  the  waves  like  a  floating  spar.  But  the 
waters  on  which  he  was  borne  no  longer  buffeted 
him.  He  was  entering  placid  seas.  As  the  luminous 
gulf  widened  he  forgot  the  Afghan  and  the  merciless 
grave. 

He  heard  the  next  volley.  It  barely  induced  a 
spasm.  Coleridge  looked  over  the  parapet  and  fixed 
his  glasses  on  the  dummy  figures  that  were  being  drawn 


THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM  97 

towards  the  picquet  by  ropes  pulled  by  men  in  the 
intervening  pits.     He  saw  two  of  them  go  down. 

"  Shabash/'  he  cried.  He  had  been  training  that 
N.0.0.  in  fire-discipline  for  a  month,  teaching  him  how 
to  control  his  section  and  show  his  men  how  to  pick  up 
their  own  targets.  He  did  not  hope  to  inspire  initia- 
tive; but  evidently  some  of  his  training  had  stuck. 
For  the  next  ten  minutes  he  and  Porky  discussed  their 
N.C.O.s  and  calculated  how  much  wisdom,  if  any,  they 
had  hammered  into  the  new  draft.  It  was  the  last 
day  of  the  field  firing  exercise  camp  and  to-morrow  they 
returned  to  Abbottabad. 

"  Enemy  approaching  up  nullah.  Range,  lOO  yards. 
Five  rounds  rapid,  fire." 

The  words  of  command  preceded  the  last  volley  from 
the  adjoining  sangar.  This  time  the  targets  were 
falling  plates.  It  needed  a  hit  plumb  in  the  middle 
to  knock  them  over,  but  three  of  them  fell." 

"  Well,  that  picquet  has  bached  ^  anyhow,"  Coleridge 
said  to  the  havildar.  "  They  held  on  all  right 
with  precious  little  ammunition.  Now  reinforcements 
have  come  up  and  we  can  wipe  the  floor  with  the 
attack." 

"  Ji,  Sahib.  Assuredly  the  enemy  have  all  perished." 
Jangbir  Thapa  pointed  to  the  riddled  dummies,  and 
fallen  plates.  "It  is  a  young  draft,  but  before  the 
pultan  2  the  bravest  become  like  Babu-log." 

Coleridge  laughed.  "  Have  they  brought  the  horse- 
blanket  for  the  Babu  we  saved  from  drowning  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  No,  Sahib.  The  Colonel  has  returned  to  camp. 
The  ambulance  will  be  here  in  two  or  three  minutes." 

"  I  know,"  Coleridge  said,  and  pointed  to  a  seedy 
^  Survived.  2  Regiment. 


98  ABDICATION 

black  frock-coat  in  which  some  wag  had  wrapped  one 
of  the  dummy  figures. 

Jangbir  Thapa  was  trotting  off  to  fetch  it,  when  the 
hospital  orderlies  appeared  in  the  nullah  with  the 
doolie.  The  Sub-Assistant  Surgeon,  also  a  Babu, 
had  brought  blankets  with  him  and  reviving  rum. 
Banarsi  Das  became  the  centre  of  an  interested  crowd. 
He  was  lifted  into  the  doolie,  still  speechless.  He 
rejected  the  rum  with  a  gesture  of  disgust. 

Coleridge  and  Porky  followed  the  procession  into 
camp,  and  the  havildar  accompanied  them  chatting 
about  red  bears,  and  markhor  and  ibex,  the  forests  of 
Ward  wan,  the  cliffs  of  Gor  above  the  Indus  under 
Nanga  Parbat,  and  other  wild  spots  consecrated  by 
shikar.  He  had  been  with  the  Sahibs  on  many  a  trek 
in  the  hills,  and  in  a  month's  time  he  would  be  camping 
with  them  again  by  the  Astor  stream  in  ibex  country. 
He  knew  to  an  inch  the  dimensions  of  every  head  in 
the  mess,  and  what  Sahib  had  shot  it.  But  he  spoke 
more  often  of  a  greater  markhor,  a  statelier  ibex,  known 
to  the  shepherds  of  Astor  or  Chilas.  The  gesture  with 
which  he  measured  the  span  of  horns  in  the  air  was  so 
dramatic  that  "  Colrig  Sahib  "  imagined  he  had  seen 
the  beast  browsing  on  its  supposititious  cliff.  There 
was  not  a  head  to  compare  with  it  on  the  walls  of  the 
mess  of  the  sister  battalion  in  Abbottabad. 

When  they  reached  the  hospital,  and  the  doolie 
was  laid  on  the  floor,  Banarsi  Das  revived  and  his  eyes 
fell  on  the  god  in  the  machine.  "  Has  the  victory  fallen 
to  the  Afghans  or  the  British?  "  he  asked  faintly. 

*'  The  victory  is  always  with  the  British,"  Coleridge 
answered,  smiling. 

"  Is  it  true  that  a  considerable  number  have  given 
up  their  ghosts  ?  " 


THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM  99 

"  No,  Babuji.     You  are  the  only  casualty/' 

Coleridge  and  Porky  laughed  again  and  Porky  trans- 
lated the  conversation  into  Gurkhali  for  the  benefit  of 
the  men.  The  little  havildar,  when  he  heard  the  joke, 
doubled  up  with  merriment. 

"  Look  after  him  and  feed  him  well,"  Coleridge  said 
to  the  Sub-Assistant  Surgeon.  "  I  expect  he  would  like 
some  boiling  hot  tea.  Or  we  could  send  round  some 
ice.  Don't  worry  him  with  questions  until  he  has  had 
a  good  sleep.  Let  me  know  if  there  is  anything  you 
want.     I'll  be  round  again  in  the  evening." 

Banarsi  Das  lay  still  and  watched  the  preparations 
for  his  resuscitation.  The  kettle  was  steaming  on  the 
angcthi ;  he  was  conscious  of  the  delicious  fragrance 
of  tea.  He  thought  of  the  tribulations  of  the  muhajarin 
in  the  camp  under  the  caves  of  Asmas,  and  thanked 
God  that  he  was  delivered  from  these  bloody-minded 
men. 


"  Have  we  won  the  battle?  " 

These  were  the  first  words  Banarsi  Das  spoke  when 
he  opened  his  eyes  in  the  hospital  after  ten  hours' 
nearly  continuous  sleep.  It  may  be  inferred  that  his 
subliminal  consciousness  had  been  in  charge  during 
this  period.  Hence  the  significant  "  We."  The  supra- 
liminal booby  took  the  hint  from  his  mate  as  he  slipped 
back  under  the  threshold.  The  sleeping  partner  is 
generally  the  wiser  of  the  two.  In  Banarsi  Das'  case 
the  subliminal  influence  was  still  in  the  ascendant  when 
Coleridge  looked  in  again  to  see  how  his  "  trussed 
Babu  "  was  getting  on. 

The  plural  of  the  first  personal  pronoun  pleased  the 


100  ABDICATION 

Gurkha  officer.  He  felt  drawn  to  this  waif  who  had 
drifted  into  their  camp  from  no  man's  land.  The 
assumption  of  the  rights  of  British  citizenship  was  quite 
unconscious  on  the  part  of  Banarsi  Das,  though  he 
might  have  argued  that  having  suffered  as  an  agent  of 
the  English,  it  was  only  just  that  he  should  continue 
in  the  unsolicited  role  that  had  procured  him  his 
eccentric  entry  on  the  stage.  The  Bulbul  had  given 
him  the  cue  for  his  new  part. 

When  Coleridge  asked  him  who  the  barbarians  were 
who  had  dispatched  him  down  the  Indus,  he  was  able 
to  answer  truthfully  that  he  was  a  victim  of  the 
Hindustani  fanatics.  He  did  not  give  a  very  connected 
story  of  himself,  only  he  led  Coleridge  to  infer  that  he 
was  an  agent  of  the  C.I.D.,  and  that  it  was  an  every- 
day event  in  his  adventurous  career  to  be  sent  on 
perilous  missions,  carrying  his  life  in  his  hands.  His 
reticence  as  to  detail  was  in  keeping  with  his  part  of 
secret  agent. 

"  I  have  served  benign  Government  since  infancy/' 
Banarsi  Das  said. 

"And  where  did  you  pick  up  your  English?" 
Coleridge  asked  him. 

Banarsi  Das  enlarged  upon  his  College  days  and  his 
benevolent  Principal.  It  was  a  phase  in  his  life  which 
had  taken  a  pleasant  colouring  by  contrast  with  his 
recent  tribulations.  He  only  remembered  the  happy 
days  when  he  walked  "  in  the  groves  of  Academe  " 
with  Siri  Ram  and  Lachmi  Narain,  and  pored  over  his 
text-books  and  construed  Shakespeare  and  Shelley  and 
Sir  Walter  Scott  to  his  own  satisfaction.  He  remem- 
bered the  feasts  in  the  dormitories  and  the  College 
Debating  Societies,  and  the  "  dramas  "  in  which  he 
had  acted  minor  parts,  and  the  parties  Skene  gave  at 
the  end  of  the  term  before  the  summer  vacations. 


THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM  101 

Coleridge  was  interested.  He  had  met  Skene  on  a 
voyage  home  between  Bombay  and  Marseilles.  He 
asked  Banarsi  Das  many  questions  about  Gandeshwar 
and  the  work  and  the  games  and  the  careers  that  were 
open  to  the  students  after  passing  their  examinations. 
Banarsi  Das  admitted  that  he  had  failed  to  pass  his 
B.A.  in  spite  of  Skene's  genius  for  instruction.  But  that 
was  due  "  to  bodily  prostrations  and  the  troubles  of 
my  family  members."  In  all  this  conversation  Banarsi 
Das  was  guided  by  an  instinct  to  please  the  god  in  the 
machine  by  a  suggestion  of  reverence,  which  was  genuine 
enough  at  the  moment,  and  to  create  an  impression  of 
respect  in  the  Englishman  for  himself.  One  end,  he 
imagined,  subserved  the  other.  Nor  was  there  any 
insincerity  in  his  reconciliation  with  the  race  of  the 
hated  oppressor.  It  was  an  old  sentiment  revived  by 
the  play  of  circumstance.  Banarsi  Das  was  soothed 
and  flattered  by  the  interest  of  this  young  Gurkha 
officer.     Coleridge  was  delighted  with  his  English. 

"  Mr.  Skene  is  very  noble  gentleman.  He  has  now 
scaled  highest  rung  of  educational  ladder.  Each  and 
every  one  of  his  old  students  feels  personal,  not  to  say 
individual,  pride  at  his  elevation." 

Banarsi  Das  referred  to  his  old  Principal's  appoint- 
ment as  Director  of  Public  Instruction  at  Thompsonpur. 

"  You  know  Thompsonpur?  "  Coleridge  asked  him. 

"  Certainly.     I  have  resided  there." 

"  What  work  did  you  take  up  after  leaving  college  ?  " 

"  At  first  I  was  teacher  in  Government  High  School. 
Then  I  joined  Police.  My  work  in  Criminal  Investiga- 
tion Department  is  of  very  confeedential  nature." 

"  Where  are  your  headquarters  now?  " 

Banarsi  Das  maintained  that  discreet  and  non- 
committal silence  which  he  thought  seemly  in  a  trusted 
subordinate  of  the  G.I.D. 


102  ABDICATION 

Coleridge  did  not  cross-examine  him.  "  I  have  sent 
a  message  to  the  D.S.P.  about  you,"  he  said.  "  You 
will  probably  see  him  and  the  Deputy  Commissioner 
to-morrow  in  Abbottabad.  They  will  want  to  hear 
your  story." 

Banarsi  Das  wilted  inwardly.  He  was  involved  in 
a  new  coil.  He  began  to  explain  that  it  was  important 
that  he  should  carry  back  his  information  to  head- 
quarters as  soon  as  possible.  It  was  "  very  secret  and 
urgent  affair,"  he  said.  But  he  had  no  money.  He 
had  been  robbed  by  the  Mujahidin. 

"  How  far  do  you  want  to  go  ?  "  Coleridge  asked  him. 

Banarsi  Das  admitted,  after  a  little  hesitation,  that 
his  destination  was  Gopalpura. 

"  That  will  be  all  right,"  Coleridge  said.  "  Mr. 
Martin,  the  Superintendent  of  Police,  will  finance  you, 
or  you  can  wire  for  money  from  Abbottabad.  We'll 
take  you  there  in  the  doolie  to-morrow.  They  tell  me 
you  still  have  fever." 

Banarsi  Das  turned  on  his  side  and  communed  with 
the  wall.  He  shrank  from  the  thought  of  Mr.  Martin. 
"  If  I  am  seen  in  company  with  police  officer,"  he  said 
after  a  little  while,  "  my  services  to  Government  will 
become  impotential.  Nobody  knows  I  am  secret  agent. 
All  my  communications  are  confidential.  Besides,  if 
I  am  taken  for  an  informer  they  will  kill  me." 

"  That  will  be  all  right,"  Coleridge  repeated  cheer- 
fully. "I'll  bring  him  round  to  the  hospital.  No  one 
will  know  that  you  have  seen  him.  Now  I  must  be 
going.     Do  you  want  anything  to  read?  " 

Banarsi  Das  beamed  gratitude.  He  expressed  a 
preference  for  the  works  of  Mr.  Dryden,  or  Mr.  Ruskin, 
or  Mr.  Shakespeare. 

Coleridge  explained  that  he  had  not  a  library  with 
him,  but  that  he  might  be  able  to  unearth  an  anthology. 


THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM  103 

"  Garden  of  choicest  flowers,  no  doubt,"  Banarsi 
Das  quoted,  airing  his  learning  and  mouthing  the  words 
with  an  ingratiating  wriggle  of  the  neck.  He  remem- 
bered the  definition  in  an  annotated  text-book. 

Coleridge  smiled.  "  What  on  earth  has  the  New 
Province  to  do  with  it  ?  "he  asked  himself  as  he  returned 
to  his  tent.  "  And  why  can't  this  half-baked  Babu 
report  himself  at  Delhi  or  Peshawar?  " 

When  he  reached  the  mess  the  dak  had  arrived,  and 
a  head-line  in  The  Civil  and  Military  Gazette  gave  him 
a  clue.  "  A  New  Exodus  of  Muhajarin,"  "  Runaway 
Students  from  Thompsonpur,"  he  read.  The  text  of 
the  telegram  was  brief.  It  simply  stated  that  as  a 
result  of  the  Khilafat  agitation,  a  dozen  or  more  Muham- 
madan  students  had  run  away  from  Thompsonpur 
College  a  week  before  the  University  examinations,  and 
that  it  was  believed  they  had  joined  the  Hindustani 
fanatics  in  Amb.  A  reference  was  made  to  a  previous 
migration  of  students  from  Lahore,  most  of  whom  had 
returned  to  their  homes.  An  editorial  note  defined 
muhajarin,  the  plural  of  the  Arabic  muhajir — one  who, 
following  the  example  of  the  Prophet,  Muhammad, 
abandons  the  country  of  the  persecutors  of  religion. 
It  was  explained  in  the  note  that  the  word  was  not 
to  be  confused  with  Mujahidin,  the  missionaries  of 
Jehad,  a  term  generally  applied  in  India  to  the  colony 
of  the  Hindustani  fanatics  at  Asmas. 

"  By  Jove  !  "  Coleridge  exclaimed  to  Porky,  who  was 
scanning  the  illustrations  of  La  Vie :  "  1  shouldn't 
wonder  if  our  young  Babu  isn't  one  of  the  Margarine." 

"  Margarine  "  was  the  variant  adopted  by  Anglo- 
India  for  the  earher  batch  of  Lahore  students,  the 
pioneers  of  hi] rat.  It  was  to  become  a  household 
word  a  few  months  afterwards  when  the  agitators 
declared  that  India  was  dar-ul-harb,  and  that  it  was 


104  ABDICATION 

obligatory  upon  all  true  Mussalmans  to  migrate  to 
Afghanistan. 

"  He  doesn't  look  much  like  a  G.I.D.  man/'  Coleridge 
continued.  "  But  neither  did  Kim's  Babu  friend,  for 
that  matter." 

"  I  took  him  for  a  Hindu,"  Porky  remarked.  "  What- 
ever he  is,  the  police  must  be  hard  up  if  they  can't  raise 
a  better  breed  of  secret  agent  on  the  frontier." 

"  Did  you  notice  that  patch  of  short  hair  on  his 
crown?    It  looked  as  if  he  had  just  clipped  his  hodiJ' 

"  A  Hindu  disguised  as  a  Muhammadan,  then;  that 
would  fit  in  with  his  C.I.D.  story." 

"  He  wouldn't  tell  me  his  name." 

*'  We'll  see  what  Martin  makes  of  him.  Martin's  a 
bit  of  a  Sherlock  Holmes.  I  wouldn't  mind  betting  he 
is  one  of  the  Margarine." 

Banarsi  Das  in  his  hospital  tent  rehearsed  his  inter- 
view with  the  dreadful  Mr.  Martin.  Rescue  had  its 
disabilities.  It  seemed  that  the  encounter  was  inevi- 
table. His  soul  yearned  with  a  great  longing  for  the 
familiar  scenes  of  Gopalpura.  He  wandered  in  the 
quiet  backwaters  where  the  astrologers  live.  He  visited 
Amba  Pershad  in  his  quarters  over  the  fruit  market 
by  the  Mori  Gate.  He  saw  the  crowded  streets  and 
the  Brahminy  bull  nosing  the  vegetables  at  the  corner 
of  the  Sudder  Bazar.  Only  he  avoided  Jemal  Khan's 
Mosque  and  the  graveyard  of  Ain-ul-Quzzat.  The  spirit 
of  adventure  in  him  was  shrivelled  up  like  the  wings 
of  a  burnt  moth.  If  they  did  not  put  him  in  gaol  he 
would  go  to  Mr.  Riley  and  ask  him  to  take  him  on 
The  ThompsonpUY  Gazette.  He  was  tempted  to  make 
a  full  confession  at  Abbottabad.  What  would  Mr. 
Martin  be  like  ?  he  wondered.  He  hoped  he  would  be 
like  Skene  or  the  sympathetic  Gurkha  officer  who  had 
promised  him  the  anthology.    Then  as  the  slow  hours 


THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM  105 

passed  he  took  the  form  of  the  terrible  Englishman  who 
had  asked  him  for  a  match  outside  the  offices  of  The 
Thompsonpur  Gazette.  When  he  fell  asleep  the  spectre 
of  the  fateful  Martin  straddled  his  dreams.  He  be- 
strode an  immense  raft  like  a  Colossus,  and  an  image 
of  him,  with  as  many  arms  as  Durga,  was  reflected  in 
the  mist  on  either  bank.  He  circled  round  Banarsi 
Das  continually  in  an  eternal  backwater,  and  the  stream 
widened  into  a  sea  to  make  room  for  his  raft.  The 
face,  on  which  doom  was  written,  was  obscured  in  cloud. 

Banarsi  Das  had  the  vaguest  ideas  as  to  the  penal- 
ties to  which  he  was  liable  as  a  member  of  the  party 
of  the  absconding  muhajarin.  He  saw  himself  escorted 
ignominiously  back  to  Gopalpura  by  the  police.  He 
would  have  confessed  outright  if  he  had  thought  there 
was  a  reasonable  hope  of  pardon,  but  the  risk  was  too 
great.  So  he  prepared  his  statement.  He  would  say 
that  he  had  attached  himself  to  the  muhajarin  at  the 
instance  of  the  Thompsonpur  police  in  order  to  report 
on  their  movements.  His  rough  treatment  at  the  hands 
of  the  Bulbul  would  bear  this  out.  He  hesitated  at 
first  whether  to  declare  himself  a  Muhammadan  or  a 
Hindu.  In  the  end  he  decided  to  give  his  assumed 
name.  It  never  occurred  to  him  that  there  could  have 
been  any  correspondence  about  him  between  Gopalpura 
and  Abbottabad. 

When  the  dreadful  Mr.  Martin  appeared  at  his  bed- 
side with  the  Gurkha  officer  the  morning  after  his 
arrival  in  cantonments,  Banarsi  Das  was  ready  with 
his  statement,  and  without  waiting  for  a  hint  of 
encouragement  began  to  declaim  in  his  portentous 
English  the  story  of  his  innocence  and  wrongs.  "  Sir," 
he  said,  "  I  have  been  outraged  by  fortune " 

But  Mr.  Martin  cut  short  his  harangue.  This  police- 
man did  not  fit  in  at  all  with  Banarsi  Das'  picture. 


106  ABDICATION 

He  was  a  little,  thin,  short  man,  very  business-like, 
matter-of-fact  and  peremptory.  There  was  no  hint 
of  sympathy  in  his  voice  or  in  his  eye,  or  even  of 
curiosity.  He  was  chilling  to  eloquence.  "  You  can 
tell  me  all  that  afterwards,"  he  said  to  Banarsi  Das. 
"First  answer  my  questions.  Who  are  you?  What 
is  your  name  ?  " 

"  My  name  is  Abdul  Hakim." 

"  Where  is  your  home?  " 

"  I  come  from  Gopalpura." 

"  Where  did  you  learn  English?  " 

"  At  Gandeshwar  College." 

"  What  is  your  employment  ?  " 

"  I  am  employed  by  the  Police." 

"  You  say  you  are  a  Muhammadan?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  how  do  you  account  for  your  hodi  ?  A  day 
or  two  ago  you  had  a  hodi.    Why  did  you  cut  it  off  ?  " 

Banarsi  Das  hurriedly  put  his  hand  to  the  back  of 
his  head.     "  It  was  a  disguise,"  he  faltered. 

Martin,  of  course,  knew  all  about  the  forlorn  victim 
of  his  catechism.  Banarsi  Das'  appearance  on  the 
frontier  had  created  what  The  Gopalpura  Standard  was 
accustomed  to  describe  as  "  a  flutter  in  the  dovecots 
of  the  C.I.D."  His  name  was  deciphered  by  the  Police 
in  many  a  coded  telegram.  In  the  course  of  a  few  days 
the  correspondence  between  the  North- West  Frontier 
Province,  the  Punjab,  the  New  Province  and  Delhi  in 
connection  with  "  Banarsi  Das  (para.  1643),  alias 
Abdul  Hakim,"  had  grown  to  bulky  dimensions. 

Martin  continued  his  catechism.  "  Who  is  your 
Superintendent  of  Police  in  Gopalpura?"  he  asked 
sternly. 

Banarsi  Das  could  not  remember  his  name.  It  was 
quite  three  seconds  before  he  could  remember  the  name 


THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM  107 

of  any  police  officer.  The  first  name  that  came  into  his 
head  was  that  of  a  Deputy  Inspector-General  of  Police 
who  had  been  associated  with  the  prosecution  of  Siri 
Ram.  "  The  gentleman's  name  is  Mr.  Hutchinson," 
he  ventured  tentatively  at  last. 

Martin  looked  at  Coleridge.  "  Hutchinson  is  dead," 
he  said.  "  He  retired  and  died  at  home  last  year. 
We'll  have  to  send  this  young  man  to  the  police  station." 

Banarsi  Das  stared  at  the  police  officer  like  a  fright- 
ened rabbit.  Then  Coleridge  saw  a  change  come  over 
his  face,  a  tightening  and  stiffening  at  the  summons  of 
self-respect.  Life  had  two  things  to  offer  Banarsi  Das. 
If  he  could  not  be  safe,  he  had  at  least  the  compensation 
of  being  heroic. 

"  I  have  been  with  the  7nuhajarin,"  he  said,  "  by 
order  of  a  certain  person  and  for  a  certain  object." 
And  he  closed  his  lips  tightly,  betraying  an  undaunted 
spirit,  as  who  should  say,  "  Never  will  I  reveal  for  what 
person  or  what  object.  Torture  will  not  extract  from 
me  the  names  of  my  confederates." 

In  moments  of  emotion  Banarsi  Das  could  attain  an 
almost  Biblical  simplicity. 

"What  are  you  afraid  of,  Banarsi  Das?  "  Martin 
asked  him.     "  Speak  up.     Tell  us  the  whole  story." 

"  Sir,  you  know  my  name?  " 

"  Yes,  I  know  your  name.  You  have  nothing  to  be 
afraid  of  if  you  speak  the  truth.  There  is  no  law 
against  leaving  the  country  because  you  are  dissatisfied 
with  Government." 

Banarsi  Das  felt  a  great  relief. 

**  Then  you  will  not  send  me  to  prison?  "  he  asked. 

"  Nobody  wants  to  send  you  to  prison." 

"  And  I  may  go  back  to  Gopalpura?  " 

"  You  may  go  back  to  Gopalpura,  but  you  must  first 
make  a  true  and  accurate  statement." 


108  ABDICATION 

"  Sir,  I  am  man  of  principle.  I  cannot  reconcile  it 
to  betray  my  confederates." 

"  I  do  not  ask  you  to  betray  them.  I  know  all  their 
names.  Besides,  there  is  no  charge  against  them. 
They  can  return  to  their  homes  if  they  like.  What  I 
want  to  know  is,  who  robbed  you  and  tied  you  to  the 
raft  and  sent  you  down  the  Indus  ?  " 

Banarsi  Das  was  now  licensed  to  speak.  He  dropped 
the  role  of  the  bold  and  unrepentant  conspirator  with  a 
certain  hesitating  reluctance.  He  emphasised  the  points 
where  he  was  at  variance  with  his  companions;  but 
he  mentioned  no  names.  The  story  of  his  adventure 
glowed  with  metaphor  and  colour.  When  he  described 
the  scene  with  the  Bulbul  and  the  Shinwari  in  the  tomb 
and  on  the  river  bank  Coleridge  wished  that  he  had 
brought  a  stenographer.  In  this  part  of  his  narrative 
Banarsi  Das  had  to  make  certain  sacrifices  in  the  matter 
of  the  heroic.  The  crown  and  halo  of  the  martyr  which 
he  had  assumed  a  few  moments  ago  were  palpable 
misfits.  Nevertheless  he  had  attained  security,  if  at 
the  expense  of  the  ideal.  He  was  beginning  to  learn 
that  he  could  not  enjoy  the  advantages  of  these  two 
incompatible  parts  at  the  same  time.  The  reflection 
with  which  he  concluded  may  perhaps  be  taken  for 
an  obscure  admission  of  this  disability. 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  "  my  position  here  is  quite 
ignis-fatuous." 

"  Precious  little  ignis  about  it,"  Coleridge  observed, 
though  not  without  sympathy. 

So  Banarsi  Das  was  free.  The  fever  had  left  him. 
The  next  day  he  was  given  an  intermediate  ticket  to 
Gopalpura,  Coleridge  saw  him  depart  in  an  ekka  to  the 
station,  a  pathetic  incongruous  little  figure  in  a  Gurkha's 
discarded  khaki  shorts  and  shirt. 


CHAPTER  IV 

BARKATULLAH 


It  was  paradoxical  that  Riley,  drawn  to  the  East 
by  a  sympathy  with  the  spirit  in  which  he  believed 
mysticism  and  faith  were  still  indweUing,  should  be 
spending  his  days  in  the  hybrid  atmosphere  of  Thomp- 
sonpur  and  editing  an  Anglo-Indian  journal.  The 
very  name  of  the  capital  of  the  New  Province  filled 
him  with  increasing  weariness,  and  there  were  days 
on  which  he  wished  that  Sir  Thomas  Thompson  had 
never  been  bom.  He  had  had  glimpses  of  an  India 
which  was  still  happily  sleeping,  where  folk  had  no 
cares  beyond  the  cultivation  of  their  fields,  their  age-old 
ritual  and  the  propitiation  of  their  gods.  Here  every- 
thing indigenous  that  had  attracted  him  to  the  country 
was  overlaid  with  accretions,  for  which  his  own  people 
were  unwittingly  responsible.  Gopalpura  was  one  with 
Thompsonpur.  Its  ancient  religions,  traditions,  legends, 
myths,  had  evaporated  or  become  absorbed  in  the 
hybrid  pohtical  atmosphere  which  he  was  forced  to 
breathe. 

Before  the  war  the  East  had  drawn  him  with  a 
great  fascination.  At  Oxford,  whenever  he  got  away 
alone  on  the  river  to  think  out  and  plan  what  he  was 
going  to  do  with  his  life,  his  dreams  were  of  Asia. 
There  was  more  of  the  poet  in  Riley  than  the  man  of 

109 


110  ABDICATION 

affairs.  It  was  not  so  much  from  books  of  travel  as 
from  favourite  passages  in  prose  and  verse  that  he 
drew  his  visions.  He  saw  the  Oxus  with  the  eyes  of 
Rust  am,  where  the  majestic  river  floated  on 

"  Out  of  the  mist  and  hum  of  that  low  land 
Into  the  frosty  starlight,  and  there  moved 
Rejoicing  through  the  hushed  Chorasmian  waste 
Past  Orgunje.  ..." 

One  day  he  would  see  Orgunje.  He  could  not  explain 
the  mysterious  fascination  the  place  had  for  him,  but 
he  felt  certain  that  he  would  be  drawn  to  it.  Malaya 
was  constantly  in  his  mind.  He  saw  it  as  it  appeared 
to  Marlow  when  he  landed  at  night  in  a  small  boat 
off  Java  Head,  after  his  tussle  with  the  sea,  when  he 
saw  the  East  looking  at  him  "  perfumed  like  a  flower, 
silent  like  death,  dark  like  the  grave."  This  haunting 
passage  in  Conrad's  Youth  became  a  recurrent  picture 
in  his  mind.  He  summoned  it  at  night  when  he  could 
not  sleep.  India,  when  he  visited  it  in  19 14  after 
taking  his  degree,  he  regarded  merely  as  a  stage  on 
the  road  further  East.  Budh  Gaya  and  Benares  were 
halting-places  for  a  pilgrim  bound  for  Boro  Budur 
and  Angkor  Wat.  His  idea  was  to  cross  the  Burmese 
frontier  in  Tenasserim  and  make  his  way  through 
Siam  to  Battambong  on  the  Tonle  Sap  lake  and 
thence  by  sampan  to  Siem  Rep.  The  mysteries  of 
Angkor,  the  ancient  city  and  temple  buried  in  the 
jungle  to  the  north  of  the  lake,  hundreds  of  miles 
from  civilisation,  were  famihar  to  him  through  the 
illustrations  of  Fournier.  He  had  spent  hours  dream- 
ing of  the  place  in  the  Musee  Khmer  in  Paris.  He 
would  pass  under  the  arch  in  the  forest  where  the 
roots  of  the  great  fig-tree  were  strangUng  the  image 
of  Gautama,  and  the  stone  monkeys  leered  at  the  real 
monkeys  from  the  frieze.     He  would  see  the  elephant 


BARKATULLAH  111 

in  high  relief,  cut  in  eight  blocks  of  Cyclopean  masonry, 
and  the  cobra-hooded  amortissement  of  the  balustrades, 
and  the  corridors  where  the  story  of  the  Rdm^yana  is 
told  in  stone.  Nearly  two  thousand  years  have  passed 
since  the  eyes  of  the  pious  rested  on  them ;  the  invaders 
from  Indropath  are  forgotten;  and  the  silent  ageless 
struggle  continues,  between  the  forest  and  the  monu- 
ments they  have  left  behind.  From  Angkor  he  would 
make  south  by  the  Mekong  through  Cambodia  and 
Cochin  China  to  Saigon.  He  would  visit  Boro  Budur 
in  Java ;  then  Borneo  perhaps,  or  Simiatra ;  he  would 
read  Youth  again  at  Java  Head. 

Nothing  came  of  these  Malayan  dreams.  Riley  went 
down  with  fever  at  Gaya,  after  which  he  was  driven 
by  the  heat  into  the  hills.  He  found  the  Himalayan 
peaks  above  the  snow-line  irresistible.  He  was  drawn 
by  Nanga  Parbat  out  of  Kashmir.  Then  K^  threw 
its  spell  on  him.  He  had  a  momentary  glimpse  of 
the  summit  at  sunset,  ethereally  suspended  in  cloud. 
He  was  at  Gilgit  in  August  when  the  war  broke  out, 
on  the  way  to  the  Pamirs,  bound  for  Kashgar,  whence 
by  Andijan  he  was  going  to  make  the  golden  journey 
to  Samarkand.  Bokhara  would  receive  him  on  the 
road  to  the  Oxus  and  the  mysterious  visionary  Orgunje 
which  he  could  find  on  no  map.  Did  Matthew  Arnold 
invent  it,  he  wondered,  seduced  by  the  poetry  of  mere 
sound  ? 

Gilgit  saw  the  end  of  this  adventure.  He  was  back 
in  Rawalpindi  before  September,  an  officer  of  the 
Indian  Army  Reserve,  and  for  the  next  three  years 
was  with  his  regiment  in  Mesopotamia,  most  of  the 
time  in  the  accursed  delta,  an  illimitable  expanse  of 
flat  baked  mud  without  a  relieving  feature,  a  country 
in  which  one  seldom  saw  a  flower  or  stone  or  tree. 
The  sun  of  Iraq  almost  burnt  his  love  of  the  East  out 


112  ABDICATION 

of  him,  and  when  he  wooed  sleep  it  was  with  scenes  of 
an  EngUsh  river,  a  green  willow  over  his  head  and  his 
feet  in  the  running  stream.  He  remembered  a  retired 
Army  Chaplain  at  Oxford  telling  him  that  after  two 
or  three  years  of  the  East,  romance  would  come  to 
mean  going  into  a  tobacconist's  shop  in  an  old  cathedral 
city  to  buy  a  box  of  wax  vestas.  The  dust  and  glare 
and  monotony  of  these  years  in  Mesopotamia,  varied 
only  by  the  occasional  neighbourhood  of  death,  flattened 
everything  out  and  left  nothing  salient  round  which  he 
could  centre  his  interests,  whether  in  imagination  or  in 
work-a-day  Hfe.  In  the  dog  days  the  heat  compelled 
an  armistice,  and  he  got  away  one  year  on  leave  for 
a  month  to  Simla.  The  next  year  he  was  three  months 
in  hospital  at  Poona  recovering  from  a  wound.  It 
was  then  that  he  began  to  dabble  in  Indian  poUtics 
and  write  articles  for  the  reviews  on  the  reaction  of 
the  West  on  the  East,  and  how  far  our  political  systems 
are  applicable  to  India.  He  was  strongly  biassed 
against  the  Europeanising  of  the  Asiatic. 

Once  or  twice  only  the  glamour  of  Asia  revived. 
At  Koweit  he  saw  the  vessels  of  the  Gulf,  half  a  league 
of  sailing  ships  drawn  up  on  the  narrow  white  beach 
between  the  houses  and  the  backwater  of  coral  rock, 
booms  and  buggalows,  kourais  and  water  boats,  dis- 
playing all  the  lines  and  contours  that  the  Arab  loves, 
the  same  keels  that  scored  the  sand  when  Ur  was  the 
port  of  the  Chaldees.  The  stems  of  the  buggalows 
were  broad  and  high,  the  tallest  of  them  standing 
thirty  feet  above  the  sand,  naked  in  its  loveliness,  the 
keels  white  with  Hme,  leaving  the  upper  part,  the  rich 
brown  sal  wood  of  the  Malabar  coast,  in  splendid  relief, 
fresh-scoured  with  fish-oil,  glowing  in  the  sun  like 
polished  oak,  and  perfuming  the  air  with  a  fish-like 
smell  beside  which  rotting  seaweed  was  faint  and 


BARKATULLAH  113 

ethereal.  On  each  side  of  the  stem  were  penthouse 
roofs  intricately  carved,  and  windows  through  which 
one  looked  for  the  head  of  Sindbad. 

Then  in  the  winter  of  1917  after  the  fall  of  Baghdad 
he  was  given  staff  work  which  took  him  on  all  the 
"  week-end  shows,"  generally  with  the  cavalry,  wher- 
ever there  was  fighting.  It  was  mostly  a  question  of 
rounding  up  hordes  of  demoralised  Turks,  and  there 
were  few  casualties  on  either  side.  The  gloom  of  the 
three  years'  tragedy  had  lifted  and  war  became  adven- 
ture again.  Riley  saw  the  desert  shrines  of  Kerbela 
and  Najaf.  He  pursued  the  Turks  by  the  Aleppo  road 
along  the  Euphrates  bank  as  far  as  Ana.  He  crossed 
the  broad  swelhng  plains  of  Kurdistan  with  the  cavalry 
to  Kirkup  and  Altun  Kupri.  He  had  leisure  to  drink 
that  country  in — walk  marches  all  day  with  a  five 
minutes'  halt  every  hour  to  close  in,  camp  in  the 
corn-fields  with  the  slant  sun  filling  the  cups  of  the 
hollyhocks  with  exquisite  light,  the  horses  happy  with 
their  noses  all  down,  tired  troopers  carrying  their 
swords  from  the  horse  Unes  to  their  tents.  He  crossed 
the  mulberry-coloured  uplands  of  Persia  with  the 
Dunster  Force  and  was  billeted  in  the  lovely  mountain- 
girt  city  of  Kermanshah  when  the  gardens  were  white 
with  fruit-blossom.  Thus  he  visited  the  secret  places 
of  the  East :  Luristan,  the  ancient  Susa,  Dizful  and 
Shuster  on  the  Karun  river,  Hamadan — the  Ecbatana 
of  the  Romans — the  rock  carvings  of  Bisotun,  the  ruins 
of  Babylon  and  Birs  Nimrud.  It  was  a  heaven-sent 
escape  from  the  delta,  the  oven-Uke  sky,  the  heat 
and  the  negation  of  everything.  Yet  most  of  the  time 
he  was  thinking  that  the  East  could  no  longer  offer 
him  all  that  he  had  gone  out  to  seek.  The  war  had 
brought  everything  too  near;  there  was  "  nothing  left 
remarkable  beneath  the  visiting  moon."  The  flowers 
I 


114  ABDICATION 

of  Jemal  Hamrin  were  delicious  because  they  were 
home-like,  the  tower  at  Tauz  Kharmatli  reminded  him 
of  St.  Michael's  Mount;  Easter  in  Devonshire  was 
revived  by  the  celandines  and  violets  and  grape 
hyacinths  under  the  almond  blossom  at  Kerind.  Much 
of  the  beauty  of  earth  remained,  and  the  poetry  that 
is  woven  out  of  it  was  not  all  withered  with  the 
garland  of  war.  One  day  in  March  he  was  sitting 
among  the  squills  and  scented  irises  on  a  slope  above 
the  Euphrates  at  Haditha,  where  the  Aleppo  road 
skirts  the  river,  when  a  patch  of  borage,  blue  and 
mauve  like  viper's  bugloss,  but  an  intenser  blue,  called 
up  some  elusive  memory.  He  had  traced  it  to  Karshish, 
"  the  picker-up  of  learning's  crumbs,  the  not-incurious 
in  God's  handiwork,"  and  was  recovering  stray  words 
of  the  epistle  of  the  Arab  physician,  when  the  M.O.  of 
the  column  by  his  side,  a  kindred  spirit,  capped  the 
quotation  in  his  mind,  "  blue-flowering  borage,  the 
Aleppo  sort,"  he  said,  "  aboundeth  very  nitrous."  All 
that  afternoon  Riley  was  as  sensitive  to  illusion  as  if 
he  had  seen  the  great  god  Pan. 

Then  after  the  Armistice  he  visited  the  East  Persian 
cordon  and  saw  Meshed  and  Merv,  and  was  held  up 
by  the  Bolsheviks  at  Annenkovo  in  the  desert,  a 
hundred  miles  from  the  bridge-head  of  the  Oxus  at 
Charjui.  It  was  the  same  wide  hummocky,  bald- 
headed  maidan  that  stretches  on  either  bank  of  the 
Euphrates  and  covers  nine-tenths  of  the  territory  of 
Islam.  Why  was  the  chosen  colour  of  the  Prophet 
green  ?  Riley  wondered,  as  he  surveyed  the  dun-coloured 
plain  with  its  tamarisk  and  its  camel-thorn  and  the 
little  long-tailed  jeroboas  flicking  in  and  out  of  their 
burrows  in  the  sand.  He  was  disappointed  not  to  see 
the  Oxus,  and  he  cursed  the  Bolsheviks  who  held  him 
up  in  the  desert  a  bare  hundred  miles  from  the  stream 


BARKATULLAH  115 

which  had  become  for  him  an  allegory  of  Ufe.  Where 
was  Orgunje?  Was  it  beyond  Charjui  that  the  sands 
"  begin  to  hem  his  watery  march  and  split  his  currents, 
that  for  many  a  league  the  shorn  and  parcelled  Oxus 
strains  along,  a  foiled  circuitous  wanderer,  Oxus  for- 
getting that  bright  speed  he  had  in  his  high  mountain 
cradle  of  Pamir  "?  No  doubt  the  real  Oxus  was  no 
more  majestic  than  the  Sutlej  or  the  Indus  in  the 
plains  of  the  Punjab,  as  disappointing  a  river  as  Merv 
was  a  city,  and  Matthew  Arnold  knew  no  more  about 
it  than  Thomas  Moore,  who  sang  of  the  palms  of 
Baramulla,  knew  about  Kashmir.  The  poet  draws  his 
colour  from  the  inward  eye.  Riley  had  looked  in  vain 
for  "  some  frore  Caspian  reed-bed  "  when  he  crossed 
that  inland  sea,  but  he  did  not  find  it  either  on  the 
Baku  or  the  Krasnovodsk  side. 

And  now  in  Thompsonpur  the  hybrid  East  made 
him  long  for  the  unspoilt  East  again.  In  the  office 
of  the  Gazette  the  voice  of  the  East  shrieked  at  him 
through  a  gramophone  with  a  Babu  intonation.  There 
was  no  trace  of  the  writing  of  Manu  or  Gautama  or 
Muhammad  in  the  record.  The  voice  was  unnatural, 
grotesque,  and  offensive.  And  yet  one  had  no  right 
to  be  offended.  It  was  the  echo  of  instruction,  ill- 
conceived,  ill-imparted,  ill-digested,  the  product  of  the 
century  and  a  half  we  have  spent  "  whipping  and 
wheedling  the  reluctant  East." 

To  whip  or  wheedle  ?  That  was  the  eternal  question. 
Having  ceased  to  whip,  was  it  decent  or  pohtic  to  take 
up  the  rod  again  ?  Parkinson,  Hill  and  Bolton  thought 
that  India  ought  to  be  whipped ;  Mr.  Samuel  Montagu 
and  his  school  that  it  ought  to  be  wheedled.  Riley 
at  this  stage  beUeved  with  the  best  of  the  Indian 
Extremists  that  it  should  be  given  a  latch-key  and 
declared  of  age.     The  consequences  might  be  disastrous 


116  ABDICATION 

for  ward  and  guardian.  On  the  other  hand,  if  the  old 
relations  were  maintained,  tempered  grudgingly  with 
concessions,  disaster  was  no  less  inevitable.  Riley  had 
put  the  case  in  a  nutshell  when  he  said  to  Skene  : 
"  Better  let  them  go  to  the  devil  in  their  own  way 
than  that  we  should  go  with  them  in  a  mutually 
abhorrent  embrace." 

Then  there  was  another  question.  Could  one  go  on 
whipping  the  East?  The  child,  though  uninstructed, 
was  growing  too  big  for  the  rod.  It  was  his  sense 
of  this  that  filled  Riley  with  discomfort.  It  put  his 
countrymen  in  an  equivocal  position.  It  made  it 
appear  that  they  were  subordinating  the  interests  of 
the  ward  to  the  privileges,  or  prestige,  of  the  guardian. 
It  invested  every  tactical  or  strategical  movement  of 
Government  with  a  suspicion  of  disingenuousness, 
ulterior  motives,  self-interest  and  cant.  Riley  ac- 
quitted the  bureaucrats  of  dishonesty.  He  knew  that 
they  were  genuine  enough,  and  that  they  believed  in 
the  disinterestedness  of  the  work  to  which  they  and 
preceding  generations  had  given  the  best  part  of  their 
lives,  an  honest,  straight-dealing,  and  in  many  cases 
a  devoted,  company,  only  singularly  unimaginative. 
They  had  subscribed,  some  willingly,  others  unwiUingly 
with  regrets  and  protests,  to  the  Montagu  scheme,  and 
they  were  preparing  the  complicated  machinery  of  the 
New  Councils  with  a  painstaking  conscientiousness. 
They  did  not  really  believe  in  them.  This  was  not 
their  child,  but  they  were  bound  to  give  it  every 
chance.  To  most  of  them  it  was  a  makeshift  that 
might  last  their  time;  that  was  all;  a  miserable  com- 
promise, bom  of  "  funk."  And  they  had  no  faith  in 
the  sponsors  at  the  baptism  of  the  infant.  The 
unctuous  words  spoken  over  the  changeling  sounded 
to  them  very  much  like  cant.    They  were  quite  con- 


BARKATULLAH  117 

vinced  that  it  would  never  be  able  to  stand  unsupported 
on  its  own  feet. 

Riley  himself  was  not  over-brimming  with  confidence, 
whether  in  the  framers  of  the  scheme,  or  in  the  material 
on  which  they  had  to  work.  The  difference  between 
him  and  these  reactionaries  was  that  he  believed  in 
uncompromising  abdication.  Not  that  he  had  any 
great  faith  in  the  efficiency  of  the  new  rulers,  the  elect 
of  the  people,  or  in  the  prospect  of  an  honest  or  work- 
able suffrage,  but  he  felt  that  anything  was  better 
than  this  festering  race-hatred  with  the  menace  in  it 
of  new  Amritsars  and  Jallianwala  Baghs.  The  worst 
thing  that  could  happen  would  be  that  as  a  result  of 
bungling  and  false  notions  of  prestige  the  British  in 
India  should  find  themselves  in  the  position  of  a 
besieged  garrison.  Riley  foresaw  that  the  newspapers 
at  home  and  in  India  would  harp  on  our  responsibilities 
to  the  Indian  people  at  a  time  when,  to  protect  ourselves 
from  them,  we  were  dependent  on  reinforcements  from 
overseas.  It  is  not  our  custom  to  let  anything  go  in 
response  to  dictation  or  threats,  yet  suzerainty  or  even 
tutelage  on  these  terms  was  imthinkable.  No  civilised 
Government  would  accept  the  situation  as  permanent. 
The  incidence  of  the  Prussian  heel  could  only  be  the 
prelude  to  Abdication.  Riley  reminded  his  readers 
that  our  rule  in  India  is  based  on  the  will  of  the 
Indian  people.  This  is  not  exactly  how  the  case  is 
put  by  the  casual  EngUshman.  He  will  tell  you  that 
India  wants  us,  or  that  if  she  does  not,  she  ought  to 
want  us,  as  she  cannot  do  without  us,  and  that  this 
comes  to  the  same  thing.  Moreover,  if  we  go,  some 
other  Power  will  have  to  step  in.  Riley  did  not  see 
himself  supporting  this  argument  with  bayonets,  or 
supporting  bayonets  with  the  argument  in  the  columns 
of  The  Thompsonpur  Gazette.    He  was  one  of  your 


118  ABDICATION 

Nevil  Beauchamps.  His  countrymen  had  a  very  strong 
case,  but  he  belonged  to  that  growing  class  of  young 
EngHshmen  who  are  incapable  of  seeing  the  point  of 
an  argument  on  their  own  side.  He  had  a  subtle 
nose  for  cant.  He  could  smell  it  everjrwhere,  more 
especially  when  obligation  and  duty  existed  side  by 
side  with  expediency.  He  was  clearly  not  a  fit  person 
to  edit  The  Thompsonpur  Gazette. 

Riley  and  his  Gazette  were  growing  more  and  more 
unpopular.  The  newspaper  was  boycotted  at  the  club, 
and  the  editor  was  not  made  over-welcome  there,  though 
he  still  had  his  friends.  A  man  who  is  admittedly  a 
"  Sahib  "  with  the  instincts  of  a  "  sportsman,"  and 
who  is  yet  perversely  given  to  inconvenient  causes,  is 
generally  described  as  "a  decent  fellow  but  quite 
mad."  The  callow  subaltern  alluded  to  Riley  as  a 
"  pro-native."  It  was  generally  agreed  that  he  had 
killed  the  Gazette.  Old  subscribers  were  falling  off. 
They  preferred  the  orthodoxy  of  The  Pioneer  and 
The  Civil  and  Military  Gazette  a  day  late.  Riley  was 
given  to  understand  by  the  proprietors  that  his  con- 
tract would  not  be  renewed  when  it  came  to  an  end 
in  June.  Willsdon  had  resigned.  A  new  editor  was 
coming  out  from  home.  This  gave  him  time  for  his 
propaganda.  He  would  have  resigned  his  editorship, 
only  he  believed,  in  his  youthful  conceit,  that  the 
obhgations  due  from  him  to  the  pubHc  were  greater 
than  those  due  to  his  proprietors.  What  he  wanted  to 
drive  home  was  simple  and  essential.  If  the  Reforms 
meant  anything  at  all,  we  had  to  reaHse  that  British 
rule  in  India  was  at  an  end  save  for  the  maintenance 
of  order  while  we  were  handing  over.  Right  or  wrong, 
we  were  pledged  to  them.  Yet  Riley  had  not  met  half 
a  dozen  men  in  the  Province  who  understood  their 
significance.    The   Lieutenant-Governor,    Sir   Aubrey 


BARKATULLAH  119 

Hilton,  was  one  of  them,  but  Parkinson,  his  Chief 
Secretary,  was  a  hopeless  reactionary.  With  the  old 
school  the  old  traditions  were  ineradicable.  Hill,  of 
course,  was  an  open  scoffer.  Bolton,  who,  it  was  said, 
was  to  be  appointed  Reforms  Commissioner  for  the 
Province,  was  beginning  to  catch  some  of  the  jargon  of 
"  the  new  era,"  and  spoke  in  his  deprecating,  academic 
way  of  "  the  acid  test  of  the  cooperation  received 
from  those  upon  whom  new  opportunities  of  service 
were  to  be  conferred,  and  the  measure  of  confidence 
that  might  be  reposed  in  their  sense  of  responsibility." 
It  meant  at  least  a  CLE.  for  him,  probably  a  C.S.I. 

The  Police  as  a  body  were  stolidly  incredulous  or 
antagonistic,  as  was  perhaps  natural  when  one  takes 
into  account  the  disposition  of  the  electors  with  whom 
they  were  most  intimately  associated.  Riley  had  heard 
an  old-stager  of  the  name  of  Mills,  District  Super- 
intendent at  Mograon,  discussing  the  political  situation 
with  a  Judge  of  the  High  Court.  "  I  was  in  Mograon 
the  other  day,"  the  D.S.P.  said.  "  The  place  is  hum- 
ming with  sedition.  My  head  constable  tells  me  that 
the  people  are  all  yapping  about  Swaraj."  "  Possibly 
somebody  had  read  them  the  Declaration  of  August 
20th,  1917,"  Riley  remarked  innocently.  But  the 
comment  had  been  made  in  perfect  good  faith.  The 
policeman  was  filled  with  the  same  resentment  that  a 
headmaster  or  a  colonel  feels  when  he  sees  the  grand 
old  traditions  of  his  school  or  regiment  being  sapped 
by  ignorant  faddists,  who  can  never  be  made  to 
understand  the  mischief,  spiritual  or  material,  that 
they  are  spreading.  His  attitude  was  quite  honest. 
If  he  gave  the  Reforms  a  thought,  he  regarded  them 
as  a  dope  administered  by  an  over-anxious  Government 
to  keep  the  intelligentsia  quiet.  The  papers  had  been 
full  of  them  of  late,  but  the  subject  bored  him.    He 


120  ABDICATION 

never  read  below  the  head-lines  or  thought  of  the 
suffrage  as  having  any  association  with  reality.  It 
was  a  bit  of  staging,  a  side  show  at  a  fair.  If  you 
had  told  him  that  in  a  year's  time  the  people  of 
Mograon  would  be  electing  their  own  Member,  who 
would  have  a  voice  in  the  Government  of  the  country, 
he  would  have  smiled  sadly.  Yet  he  was  a  wise  man 
in  his  own  province.  Nobody  understood  the  people 
of  Mograon  better  than  their  District  Superintendent 
of  PoHce. 

With  this  spirit  abroad  it  was  not  surprising  that  the 
Indians  did  not  believe  in  the  Reforms.  Even  the 
Moderates  were  suspicious,  while  the  Extremists 
were  hostile  from  the  beginning.  Like  the  Russian 
Bolsheviks  on  the  eve  of  the  Revolution,  they  opposed 
any  concession  that  might  contribute  to  the  peace  of 
mind  of  the  masses  and  put  them  out  of  sympathy 
with  revolt.  The  Reforms  were  the  bugbear  of  the 
irreconcilables ;  they  feared  this  tentative  association 
of  Indians  with  Government.  Without  the  Reforms, 
they  thought,  they  might  hope  to  throw  off  the  British 
and  cut  away  the  tentacles  that  were  fastened  into 
their  system;  whereas,  if  the  scheme  were  accepted, 
they  beheved  that  the  British  would  never  go.  It 
was  a  trick  of  the  aHen  bureaucracy,  they  said,  who 
will  hang  on  to  the  substance  and  put  us  off  with  the 
shadow  until  the  end  of  time.  They  did  not  beheve 
in  the  British.     They  did  not  want  to  believe  in  them. 

Riley  did  not  hope  to  convert  the  irreconcilables 
through  the  columns  of  The  Thompsonpur  Gazette. 
What  he  aimed  at  was  the  acceptance  of  the  fact  among 
his  own  people  that  the  old  order  had  passed.  Skene 
had  once  described  him  as  "  a  reactionary  in  sympathy 
and  a  progressive  in  practice."  Riley  admitted  it. 
"  All  my  sympathies  are  with  the  old  order,"  he  said. 


BARKATULLAH  1«1 

"  Yet  I  have  to  spend  my  time  persuading  my  friends 
that  it  is  dead."  It  was  not  a  popular  gospel,  but 
he  preached  it  eloquently.  He  was  fully  alive  to  his 
short-comings  as  an  editor  and  a  journalist.  He  was 
a  dreamer,  a  lover  of  the  classics,  poetry,  belles-lettres, 
nature,  birds  and  flowers.  He  had  really  no  business 
in  a  newspaper  office.  He  had  let  himself  be  harnessed 
for  a  period  to  The  Thompsonpur  Gazette  as  part  of 
the  price  he  had  to  pay  for  his  continued  sojourn 
in  the  East.  He  was  a  fellow  of  his  College  and  a 
Double  First,  and  might  have  entered  any  service  at 
the  end  of  his  term  at  Oxford,  but  he  was  a  wanderer 
by  instinct  and  dreaded  a  permanent  mooring. 

The  editorship  was  offered  him  a  few  months  after 
the  Armistice.  PoHtics  was  not  his  mitier ;  but  he 
enjoyed  a  fight.  And  here  was  a  campaign  that 
appealed  to  the  obstinacy  and  chivalry  in  him.  In 
the  beginning  he  was  opposed  to  diarchy  and  all  the 
theoretic  idealism  of  the  Round  Table.  The  scheme 
seemed  to  him  impracticable.  An  indigenous  consti- 
tution for  South  Africa  was  all  very  well,  but  these 
dreamers  did  not  know  the  material  they  had  to  work 
on.  He  had  waded  through  the  Montagu-Chelmsford 
Report  when  on  service  in  Mesopotamia  and  had  been 
struck  by  the  chapter  on  "  The  Conditions  of  the 
Problem."  The  extreme  frankness  of  the  author 
of  this  statement  read  Hke  an  indictment  of  the  main 
proposal,  and  he  tried  to  reconcile  the  candour  of  it 
with  the  pious  hopes  expressed  in  the  concluding 
paragraph,  that  when  we  had  taught  the  people  of 
India  to  be  politically-minded  all  obstacles  would  be 
swept  away,  and  the  road  to  Self -Government  would 
be  made  smooth.  As  if  by  an  Act  of  Parliament 
the  three  hundred  millions  could  be  made  European- 
hearted.    He  noted  that  the  Report  promised  to  protect 


122  ABDICATION 

the  ryots  during  this  period  of  ferment  until  they  were 
able  to  protect  themselves.  He  learnt  afterwards 
that  "  The  Conditions  of  the  Problem "  had  been 
written  by  an  expert  on  the  spot,  and  the  pious  hopes 
inserted  at  the  end  by  the  framers  of  the  scheme. 
That  the  body  of  the  chapter  should  have  been  left 
uncensored  was  at  least  an  earnest  of  honesty.  Riley's 
comments  on  the  Report  in  a  monthly  review  had  been 
read  by  one  of  the  proprietors  of  The  Thompsonpur 
Gazette,  with  the  result  that  he  was  offered  the  acting 
editorship  of  the  paper.  He  stipulated  for  a  free  hand. 
The  stalwarts  behind  the  Gazette  were  disappointed 
in  him.  By  the  time  he  reached  Thompsonpur  the 
Reform  Scheme  was  a  live  thing.  He  had  no  illusions 
as  regards  the  obstacles  in  the  way,  but  he  had  vision 
enough  to  see  that  any  evasion  of  the  spirit  of  the  Act, 
or  whittling  down  of  its  provisions,  or  jibbing  at  its 
consequences,  must  be  disastrous.  We  were  pledged 
to  Self-Government.  There  was  no  turning  back. 
If  we  did  not  deserve  the  confidence  of  the  Indians 
in  this,  we  had  no  right  to  stay  in  the  country.  He 
went  further  than  the  Secretary  of  State  and  supported 
the  Reforms  with  an  uncompromising  thoroughness 
that  alarmed  even  the  Progressives.  He  scoffed  at 
the  system  of  checks  and  safeguards  prescribed  by 
the  physician  as  an  antidote  to  paralysis  after  the 
dose  of  independence  had  been  administered.  As 
if  Indians,  having  attained  their  enfranchisement, 
would  be  any  more  likely  to  submit  tamely  to  auto- 
cratic vetoes  imposed  on  the  popular  will.  He  was 
tempted  to  quote  the  wordly-wise  Mr.  Blackburn 
Tuckham  in  the  Gazette.  "  As  for  sending  them  (the 
British  proletariat)  to  school  after  giving  them  power, 
it's  like  asking  a  wild  beast  to  sit  down  to  dine  with 
us — ^he  wants  the  whole  table  and  us  too.  .  .  .  It's 


BARKATULLAH  128 

a  delusion  amounting  to  dementedness  to  suppose 
that  with  the  people  inside  our  defences  we  can  be 
taming  and  tricking  them."  Riley  agreed  in  the  main 
premises  with  Colonel  Halkett's  mentor.  If  it  had 
become  a  point  of  honour,  or  expediency,  to  invite 
the  wild  beast  to  the  table,  it  was  no  part  of  our  obliga- 
tion to  offer  ourselves  at  the  feast.  We  must  either 
keep  him  out  or,  if  we  let  him  in,  we  must  make  a 
timely  and  inconspicuous  exit  as  soon  as  we  have  said 
grace. 

The  Thompsonpur  Gazette  was  no  longer  an  extremist 
Anglo-Indian  paper,  Riley  with  his  intuitive  sympathy 
could  understand  the  nationahst's  point  of  view.  To 
the  type  of  bureaucrat  who  honestly  believed  that  he 
was  out  to  materialise  the  spirit  of  the  Reforms,  and 
who  yet  instinctively  clung  to  every  precaution  and 
welcomed  every  incident  that  could  delay  the  perilous 
moment  of  handing  over,  Riley's  attitude  was  not 
a  little  galhng.  On  the  other  hand,  he  was  a  source  of 
strength  to  Government  in  his  exposure  of  the  insin- 
cerities and  cant,  the  lies  and  misrepresentations  of 
some  of  the  leading  Extremists.  He  stripped  the 
Khilafat  question  of  the  humbug  in  which  it  was 
wrapped,  and  laid  bare  the  real  nakedness  of  the  charge 
of  broken  faith  and  the  alleged  drain  of  India's  wealth 
by  the  blood-sucking  English.  There  was  no  hint 
of  patronage  or  racial  arrogance  in  his  encounters 
with  the  irreconcilables.  He  fought  them  as  if  they 
were  English;  yet  there  was  not  another  journalist 
in  India  who  could  administer  so  splendid  a  castigation. 
All  this  carried  weight,  as  his  nationaHsm  was  above 
suspicion.  But  his  real  service  was  his  insistence 
on  the  reaUty  of  the  Reforms.  To  the  Indians  he  said, 
"  You  have  got  Swaraj,"  and  to  his  countr5mien, 
"  We've  abdicated."    And  it  was  clear  that  he  meant 


124  ABDICATION 

it.  The  Gazette,  in  spite  of  its  downright  support 
of  nationahsm  and  its  occasional  gibes  at  the  bureau- 
cracy, did  more  to  restore  confidence  in  Government 
than  Royal  Proclamations  or  official  harangues. 
Riley  had  earned  a  reputation  for  independence. 
Other  Anglo-Indian  journals  might  reason  and  expound 
with  the  clarity  of  Burke,  but  their  arguments  carried 
no  weight,  their  sympathy  was  suspect,  their  inspiration 
tainted  at  the  source.  Nobody  believed  in  them. 
They  were  the  gramophones  of  the  bureaucracy. 


II 

Six  months  had  passed  since  the  flight  of  the  muha- 
jarin,  and  things  had  gone  steadily  from  bad  to  worse. 
The  Extremists  were  making  a  dead  set  at  the  masses. 
For  years  the  Congress  leaders  had  neglected  them. 
They  had  had  little  or  no  personal  contact  with  the 
rural  population.     They  now  discovered  that  without 
an    organised    campaign    "  to    awaken    the    poHtical 
consciousness  of  the  people  "  they  could  do  nothing. 
In  this  they  professed  the  same  aim  as  the  framers 
of  the  Montagu  Report.     The  ideal,  therefore,  was, 
in  the  abstract,  unexceptionable.     The  only  difference 
between  the  point  of  view  of  the  Extremist  missionaries 
and  the  Secretary  of  State  lay  in  its  practical  applica- 
tion.    Both  agreed  that  it  was  necessary  to  disturb 
**  the    placid    contentment "    of    the    masses.     Their 
ultimate  aim  was  identical,  the  Government  of  India 
by  the  Indian  people.     Only  the  Secretary  of  State 
in  his  uninstructed  ideaHsm  was  for  lajdng  the  founda- 
tions of   pohtical  responsibility  while  the  Extremist 
missionaries   aimed   at   stirring  up   the  irresponsible 
against  the  existing  system. 


BARKATULLAH  125 

A  charge  that  the  bureaucracy  often  makes  against 
the  educated  classes  is  that  they  do  not  represent  the 
voice  of  the  people,  that  their  claims,  as  often  as  not, 
are  opposed  to  the  interests  of  *'  the  inarticulate 
masses."  The  average  District  Officer  would  tell  you 
in  all  good  faith  that  the  Civil  Service  mainly  existed 
to  protect  the  people  from  the  hunniah  and  the  vakiL 
The  mere  suggestion  of  this  benevolent  guardianship 
naturally  exasperated  the  intelligentsia,  and  there 
was  more  than  a  suspicion  of  truth  in  it.  Their  obvious 
retort  was  to  associate  themselves  poUtically  with  the 
masses.  The  Civil  Servant,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten 
an  Enghshman,  was  still  regarded  as  the  "  Ma  Bap," 
or  Father  and  Mother  of  his  District.  The  first  thing 
to  do,  then,  was  to  ahenate  the  people  from  their 
District  Officers,  to  create  a  feeling  that  Government 
was  hostile  to  them,  and  that  the  agitator  was  a 
necessary  intermediary.  There  had  been  movements 
in  this  direction,  of  course,  ever  since  the  British  had 
come  to  India,  but  the  activities  of  the  agitators  had 
been  tentative  and  sporadic.  What  they  aimed  at 
now  was  a  poHtical  centre  in  every  village  through 
which  the  people  might  be  taught  their  shameful 
condition  as  subjects  of  an  alien  Raj.  Here,  again, 
the  difficulties  of  the  Extremists  were  the  difficulties 
of  Mr.  Montagu.  It  was  almost  impossible  to  awaken 
in  the  contented  villager  any  interest  in  poUtics. 
He  was  lamentably  wanting  in  public  spirit.  Not 
one  in  sixteen  knew  how  to  write  his  name;  not  one 
in  a  thousand  knew  or  cared  how  he  was  governed. 
The  machinery  of  the  Sircar  began  and  ended  for  them 
in  the  incidence  of  the  revenue  collector  and  policeman. 
The  promoters  of  the  Reform  Scheme  would  have 
been  disappointed  if  they  had  visited  the  districts 
of  the  New  Province.     It  was  impossible  to  explain 


126  ABDICATION 

to  the  people  of  Mograon,  for  instance,  the  meaning 
of  an  election  or  a  vote.  The  zemindar,  if  he  were  told 
that  the  British  intended  to  hand  over  the  government 
of  the  country  to  the  people,  would  be  merely  puzzled. 
He  probably  would  not  believe  it ;  or  if  he  did  beUeve 
it,  he  would  take  it  as  a  symptom  of  decadence,  a 
point  of  view  that  he  would  hold  in  common  with  the 
majority  of  the  members  of  the  Thompsonpur  Club. 
"  Sircar  dar-gya,"  he  would  say,  "  Government  is 
afraid,"  and  contempt  would  soon  take  the  place  of 
wonder  in  his  mind,  only  to  be  followed  by  indifference. 
His  elected  member,  whoever  he  might  be,  would  appear 
to  him  a  man  to  be  propitiated,  as  he  would  no  doubt 
be  given  autocratic  powers  in  his  own  district. 

It  was  not  quite  so  difficult  for  the  agitator  to  interest 
the  zemindars  in  the  iniquity  of  the  British  Govern- 
ment. Political  subtleties  were  lost  on  them;  but 
there  was  always  the  appeal  to  passion.  The  Rowlatt 
Act,  for  example,  was  a  measure  too  remote  to  touch 
their  lives;  yet  it  had  been  easy  to  persuade  them 
that  a  new  Act  had  been  passed  depriving  them  of 
the  most  ordinary  liberties  and  exposing  them  to  arrest 
or  imprisonment  at  the  caprice  of  an  informer  without 
evidence  or  trial.  They  were  told  that  Government 
had  passed  a  law  forbidding  more  than  four  persons 
to  gather  together  in  one  place,  that  there  were  to  be 
no  more  family  gatherings  or  marriage  processions  or 
meetings  for  prayers,  that  their  brides  were  to  be  exam- 
ined by  the  Civil  surgeon,  and  their  funerals  supervised 
by  the  police.  A  wave  of  fear  and  anger  had  passed 
over  the  country  which  was  mainly  responsible  for 
the  outbreaks  in  the  Punjab.  The  people  of  the  New 
Province  were  less  affected.  They  had  now  no  doubt 
forgotten  their  imagined  wrongs.  Nevertheless  a 
vague  feehng  of  resentment  was  left  behind,  which 


BARKATULLAH  127 

was  fed  from  day  to  day  with  new  inventions.  Some 
of  these  stories  might  be  true ;  others  false ;  generally 
some  of  the  mud  that  was  thrown  stuck.  One  was 
no  less  ready  to  believe  a  new  wrong  because  the  last 
one  had  proved  to  be  an  invention.  In  Mograon, 
for  instance,  the  hitherto-contented  district  in  which 
Mills,  D.S.P.,  had  lately  discovered  disaffection,  the 
zemindars  were  suffering  a  great  deal  of  distress  on 
account  of  the  stoppage  of  the  canal  water.  The  Sircar 
could  not  be  made  responsible  for  the  drought.  Yet 
there  had  been  a  riot  since  Mills  visited  the  place, 
and  a  certain  amount  of  anti-Government  agitation. 
Two  or  three  Zilladars  had  been  injured.  Riley  sent 
an  Indian  on  his  staff,  one  Gopal  Chand,  to  inquire 
into  the  origin  of  the  trouble.  It  turned  out  that  the 
villagers  had  been  told  that  they  would  get  no  more 
canal  water  that  year.  Government,  it  was  said,  had 
cut  off  the  supply  as  a  mark  of  displeasure  because 
Mograon  had  contributed  fewer  recruits  than  any 
other  tehsil  in  the  district. 

The  author  of  this  story,  no  other  than  BarkatuUah, 
editor  of  The  Roshni,  was  able  to  quote  chapter  and 
verse  from  a  speech  of  the  Lieutenant-Governor  to 
prove  his  point.  This  carried  conviction.  Everyone 
remembered  that  Sir  Aubrey  Hilton  had  been  to 
Mograon  and  that  he  had  made  a  speech  there.  He 
had  thought  it  due  to  the  district  which  had  proved 
itself  the  best  recruiting  area  in  India  outside  the 
Punjab.  His  address  to  the  zemindars  had  been  one 
of  undiluted  commendation,  though  it  was  unfortunately 
true  that  he  had  quoted  statistics.  His  figures  showed 
that  of  the  four  tehsils  in  the  district,  that  of  Mograon 
was  last  on  the  list  in  the  number  of  recruits;  never- 
theless, as  he  was  careful  to  point  out,  it  had  given  a 
larger  return  than  any  other  tehsil  in  proportion  to 


128  ABDICATION 

its  population.  Barkatullah  did  not  think  it  necessary 
to  quote  this  part  of  the  context,  nor  did  he  state  in 
so  many  words  that  the  zemindars  had  been  penaUsed. 
He  only  pointed  out  that  Government  were  displeased 
with  them  and  had  cut  off  their  canal  water.  The 
story  grew  out  of  that;  he  left  it  to  the  zemindar  to 
apply  the  inference.  He  knew  exactly  how  far  he 
could  go  without  risking  a  conviction  under  the  Defence 
of  India  Act.  It  was  a  clever  move.  The  zemindars, 
many  of  whom  were  demobilised  sepoys  and  had  spent 
years  in  the  trenches  in  France  or  Mesopotamia,  were 
angry  and  sore.  The  injustice  of  the  insult  rankled. 
And  their  land  was  crying  out  for  water. 

Riley  did  not  attach  much  importance  to  the  Mograon 
grievance  when  he  heard  Gopal  Chand's  account  of  it. 
"  Surely,"  he  said,  "  the  D.G.  has  only  to  explain  that 
there  is  no  water  in  the  canal  because  the  rivers  are  dried 
up.  The  zemindars  are  not  fools.  Besides,  he  can  quote 
the  whole  text  of  the  Lieutenant-Governor's  speech." 

But  the  case  was  not  so  simple  as  it  seemed.  *'  The 
Deputy  Commissioner  is  seeing  the  zemindars  to-day," 
Gopal  Chand  explained.  "  Probably  they  will  pretend 
to  believe  him.  One  or  two  of  them  may  really  believe 
him,  but  I  doubt  if  his  story  will  convince  many. 
The  others  will  say,  '  He  is  bound  to  make  up  some 
story  like  that  to  save  the  face  of  Government.'  When 
an  official  goes  out  of  his  way  to  deny  a  charge  the 
presumption  is  that  it  is  true." 

"  But  if  one  of  their  own  people  were  to  talk  to  them," 
Riley  asked,  "  wouldn't  they  believe  him?  " 

"  They  might  possibly  beheve  him,  but  they  would 
be  more  likely  to  believe  the  story  against  Government." 

"  It  seems  that  the  zemindar  is  credulous  in  the 
case  of  lies  only,"  Riley  observed.  "  He  has  never 
been  let  down  by  his  D.G.,  and  he  would  probably 


BARKATULLAH  129 

trust  his  last  pie  with  him,  if  it  were  a  case  of  personal 
relations,  but  he  won't  believe  him  where  Government 
is  concerned.  Yet  when  these  lie-mongers  come 
along  who  contradict  themselves  every  ten  minutes, 
and  are  quite  obviously  out  to  make  a  case  against 
Government,  he  will  swallow  anything  they  have  got 
to  say.  I  don't  suppose  one  of  these  zemindars  would 
trust  BarkatuUah  with  a  five-rupee  note.  How  do 
you  explain  it?  " 

It  was  a  question  he  often  asked  himself.  The 
explanation  seemed  to  be  that  the  Indian  masses 
beheve  anything  they  want  to  beUeve.  This  led  to 
the  further  reflection  :  if  the  Will  to  believe  anything 
against  Government  is  so  deep-rooted  an  instinct, 
is  it  because  the  Government  is  an  ahen  one  ?  If  so, 
this  attitude  of  the  masses  lends  some  support  to  the 
claim  of  the  inteUigentsia  that  they  represent  the  voice 
of  the  people.  Riley  knew  that  nine  Indians  out  of 
ten,  when  their  personal  interests  are  concerned,  would 
rather  take  their  case  to  an  Englishman  than  to  one 
of  their  own  countrymen.  Such  is  the  experience 
of  the  EngHsh  civilian  in  India,  and  out  of  it  grows 
the  root  idea  of  our  responsibiUty  to  the  masses. 
With  the  reactionary  this  is  the  stock  argument  against 
self-government,  a  conclusion  honestly  arrived  at, 
though  without  the  assistance  of  sympathetic  imagina- 
tion. "  When  Atma  Ram  or  Rahim  Bakhsh  is  in 
trouble  he  will  come  to  me  with  perfect  confidence," 
he  argues.  "  Therefore  it  must  follow  that  he  prefers 
the  British  as  his  rulers  to  his  own  people.  He  knows 
which  side  his  bread  is  buttered."  But  there  is  a 
lack  of  imagination  in  this  deduction  of  the  universal 
from  the  particular.  Because  self-interest  directs 
Atma  Ram  or  Rahim  Bakhsh  to  the  Deputy  Com- 
missioner for  the  settlement  of  a  dispute,  it  does  not 

K 


180  ABDICATION 

follow  that  he  is  content  to  be  under- dog  to  the  end  of 
time.  Wherever  brown  is  ranged  against  white  there 
is  no  doubt  where  an  Indian's  sympathies  lie. 
"  Watch  a  polo  match  between  a  British  cavalry 
regiment  and  an  Indian  Native  State.  One  has  only 
to  hsten  to  the  shouting  to  know  which  way  the  game 
is  going,  and  the  loudest  hullabaloo  comes  from  the 
syces  and  the  riff-raff  of  the  bazar."  Riley  used  this 
illustration  in  an  argument  with  Bolton.  "  Any 
point  a  black  man  scores  over  a  white,"  he  said,  "  is 
chalked  up  on  the  board  to  the  credit  of  the  race. 
Don't  dope  yourself  with  the  idea  that  the  Indian 
masses  go  to  bed  praying  for  the  continuance  of  the 
White  Raj." 

At  Mograon  BarkatuUah  only  touched  Hghtly  on 
the  Khilafat  question,  as  most  of  the  colonists  of  the 
district  were  Jats  and  it  was  difficult  to  interest  them 
in  the  wrongs  of  Islam.  In  Muhammadan  centres 
the  Khilafat  was  his  trump  card.  The  will  to  beUeve 
was  strong  in  the  editor  of  The  Roshni.  He  was  an 
adept  in  the  faculty  of  self-deception.  He  could  per- 
suade himself  that  the  British  had  entered  Mecca 
and  Medina  and  that  the  Union  Jack  was  nailed  to 
the  Prophet's  tomb.  It  was  necessary  to  believe  this 
in  order  to  convince  others.  For  BarkatuUah  was  an 
earnest  seeker  after  truth.  As  soon  as  he  had  collected 
his  facts  he  repeated  them  to  himself  two  or  three 
times  a  day.  In  this  way  he  drew  a  vivid  picture. 
He  saw  the  black  pall  of  the  Kaaba  with  the  red, 
white,  and  blue  British  ensign  pinned  to  it.  The  idea 
had  been  suggested  to  him  by  a  picture  of  Lord  Roberts' 
coffin  in  an  old  copy  of  The  Illustrated  London  News. 
Imagination  embroidered  it.  "  The  Sherif  of  Mecca 
has  again  converted  the  Kaaba  into  an  idol  house," 
he  declaimed ;  and  he  added  with  a  fine  irony,  *'  Hindu- 


BARKATULLAH  181 

Moslem  unity  should  now  be  rendered  easy."  As 
he  spoke  his  voice  was  harsh  with  conviction,  for  through 
his  half -closed  eyes  he  saw  a  picture  of  the  gross  images 
in  the  niches  in  the  wall.  But  he  did  not  make  this 
statement  in  the  presence  of  Hindus. 

It  was  this  illustrative  faculty  that  had  earned 
BarkatuUah  the  foremost  place  among  the  agitators 
of  the  New  Province.  What  he  could  see  he  could 
make  others  see,  and  so  he  was  able  to  reach  a  lower 
stratum  of  the  people  than  many  rival  orators,  just 
as  a  pictorial  paper  carries  further  than  unadorned 
letter-press.  He  was  not  at  his  best  with  an  educated 
audience.  The  intelligentsia  saw  through  him. 
Honest  Extremists  were  a  Uttle  afraid,  and  ashamed  of 
him.  His  crudities  were  too  glaring.  Suresh  Chandra 
Chatter]  i,  for  instance,  the  editor  of  The  Gopalpura 
Standard,  recoiled  from  certain  flagrancies  of  Barka- 
tuUah which  he  felt  were  discreditable  to  the  cause. 
He  could  not  ignore  them  in  the  Standard  as  they  were 
items  of  current  poUtical  news.  He  even  had  to  appear 
to  endorse  them.  It  was  painful  to  Chatter] i  to  see 
BarkatuUah's  name  associated  with  Gandhi  in  the 
Anglo-Indian  Press.  The  man  was  too  great  a  force 
to  ignore,  while  opposition  was  out  of  the  question; 
any  aspersion  of  the  popular  idol  would  lay  the  Standard 
open  to  the  charge  of  anti-nationahsm.  To  the  ver- 
nacular Press  BarkatuUah  was  a  devoted  and  self- 
sacrificing  patriot.  So  when  the  Roshni  Press  was 
confiscated,  which  happened  more  than  once,  the 
Standard  joined  the  popular  outcry  against  the 
repressive  and  reactionary  poUcy  of  the  autocratic 
Government. 

BarkatuUah  was  one  of  the  few  agitators  who  could 
gain  the  ear  of  the  demobiUsed  Moslem  Sepoy.  Dean 
showed  RUey  the  report  of  a  speech  he  had  made  at 


132  ABDICATION  ^ 

Ain-ul-Ouzzat.  He  would  have  been  arrested  for  it 
a  week  earlier,  but  the  proclamation  of  the  King- 
Emperor's  amnesty  to  political  offenders  gave  him  his 
chance.  He  knew  that  no  Government  would  dare 
to  stultify  the  spirit  of  it  when  the  ink  was  barely  dry. 
He  had  the  courage  of  "  the  offensive  with  immunity." 
He  began  with  a  picture  of  the  desecration  of  the 
Prophet's  tomb  which  moved  his  audience  to  tears. 
He  might  have  been  an  eye-witness.  Then  he  dwelt 
on  the  rehgious  aspect  of  the  war  as  an  anti-Islamic 
crusade.  "  The  Khalifa  alone  can  save  Islam,"  he 
said,  "  but  the  British  have  made  the  Sherif  of  Mecca 
Khahf  in  payment  for  the  assistance  he  lent  them  in 
their  attack  on  the  Viceroy  of  God.  He  is  a  wicked 
man  and  an  idol-worshipper,  gorged  with  bacon  and 
wine.  But  what  of  the  Indian  Muhammadan  soldiers 
who  had  fought  on  the  Kafir's  side  against  the  Khalif  ? 
They  were  not  Muhammadans  at  all.  They  had 
become  Kafirs  and  should  be  excommunicated;  their 
funerals  should  not  be  attended;  their  wives  should 
be  considered  divorced  from  them.  Many  had  sur- 
rendered their  faith  and  their  lives  in  the  war,  and  had 
been  made  to  eat  horses  and  drink  dung- water.  Thus 
they  filled  their  bellies  by  wielding  the  Kafirs'  sword. 
But  they  would  be  torn  up  before  God  after  death. 
They  would  go  straight  to  hell. 

Then  he  told  the  story  that  had  come  from  the 
Punjab  of  an  Indian  Muhammadan  soldier  who  had 
fought  against  the  Turks  and  been  killed,  and  whose 
face  had  been  turned  into  that  of  a  pig.  "  So  also 
will  the  faces  of  all  men  who  enhst  in  the  infidel  army 
to  fight  for  the  British  against  the  Turk  become  the 
faces  of  swine."  Those  who  had  fought  against  Islam 
should  now  attack  the  destroyer  of  Islam.  In  this 
way  alone  could  the  evil  they  had  done  be  remitted 


BARKATULLAH  138 

so  that  they  could  show  their  faces  to  God.  "  But  the 
time  is  not  long.  From  one  end  of  India  to  another 
a  flame  is  spreading  in  which  the  infidel  will  be  consumed. 
Are  they  not  becoming  impotent?  The  British  in 
India  are  so  few  that  if  all  the  Indians  spat  together 
they  would  be  drowned  in  a  sea  of  saliva." 

Such  was  the  Indian  pohticians'  appeal  to  "  the  soul 
force  "  of  the  people.  Or  so  it  appeared  to  the  bureau- 
cracy in  Thompsonpur.  The  spiritual  side  of  the  move- 
ment was  not  so  apparent.  The  idealism  of  Gandhi 
was  lost  on  them.  It  was  picturesque,  but  unpractical. 
The  man  might  be  a  saint,  or  a  disciple  of  a  Tolstoy, 
but  he  was  a  positive  danger  to  the  State.  And  it  was 
difficult  to  believe  in  his  sincerity.  "  Passive  resist- 
ance "  and  "  revolution  without  bloodshed "  were 
mere  catchwords.  They  meant  nothing  and  could 
serve  no  one  save  the  incendiary,  to  protect  his  person, 
as  he  applied  his  match  to  the  charge  at  the  gate  of 
the  fort.  The  Western  mind  was  impatient  at  Mr. 
Gandhi's  talk  of  satyagraha.  For  who  can  remain 
passive  when  his  heart  is  inflamed?  It  is  idle  to  stir 
up  violence  in  the  heart  and  forbid  violence  by  the  hand. 
Yet,  very  slowly,  the  conviction  gained  ground,  even 
among  those  who  were  least  willing  to  admit  it,  that 
Gandhi  was  an  honest  and  sincere  fanatic,  whose  soul 
yearned  with  a  great  pain  for  the  purification  of  his 
country  from  the  contagion  of  the  West.  In  Thompson- 
pur, however,  it  was  difficult  to  recognise  the  saintly 
influence  of  the  Mahatma  among  his  professed  disciples. 
The  Indian  civilian,  with  his  back  to  the  wall,  in  loyal 
defence  of  the  citadel,  only  saw  a  gang  of  unscrupulous 
agitators  sapping  the  foundations  of  Government, 
poisoning  the  minds  of  the  people  out  of  envy  and 
malice,  and  precipitating  them  down  the  incline  which 
must  land  them  in  the  plane  of  misery  and  anarchy 


184  ABDICATION 

from  which  they  had  been  upHfted  by  a  century  and 
a  half  of  British  rule. 

Riley  was  as  disgusted  as  any  bureaucrat  at  the 
poisonous  vapourings  of  the  Extremists,  but  he  was 
open-minded  enough  and  sufficiently  conscious  of 
bias  to  realise  that  there  was  danger  in  the  mental 
rebound  of  disgust  he  felt  in  hearing  Barkatullah's 
presentment  of  the  case,  a  rebound  so  violent  that  it 
might  land  him  safely,  and  falsely,  if  he  were  not  on 
his  guard,  in  the  old  convenient  Anglo-Indian  convic- 
tions. The  more  he  listened  to  Barkatullah  the  more 
he  loved  his  own  people.  After  reading  The  Roshni 
or  The  Kali  Yuga  he  was  almost  reconciled  to  the 
Anglo-Indian  Extremist.  He  turned  with  relief  from 
these  exhalations  to  the  old-world  piety  of  Hobbs, 
who  regarded  the  EngHshman  as  divinely  appointed 
to  chasten  and  chastise  the  heathen  in  a  land  in  which 
the  Almighty  had  planted  them  in  His  inscrutable 
providence  to  aggravate  the  trials  of  a  numerically 
inferior  but  God-fearing  race.  Was  Barkatullah 
responsible  for  Hobbs,  or  Hobbs  responsible  for 
Barkatullah?  Any  night  of  the  week  the  retired 
officer  of  cavalry  might  be  found  at  the  bar  of  the 
Thompsonpur  Club  inveighing  against  Government. 
Hobbs  might  have  stepped  straight  out  of  '57.  To  him 
Indians  were  still  children  to  be  meted  out  reward  or 
punishment  according  to  the  convenience  or  incon- 
venience of  their  conduct  as  it  affected  British  interests. 
He  was  convinced  that  the  Reforms  were  part  of 
some  Hun-inspired  Semitic  intrigue  to  undermine  the 
British  Empire,  for  which  sole  purpose  Mr.  Montagu 
had  been  treacherously  appointed  Secretary  of  State. 
A  crony  of  his,  Colonel  Bruce-Swinnerton,  generally 
ensconced  in  an  adjacent  chair,  would  endorse  these 
judgments  with  appropriate  expletives  and  portentous 


BARKATULLAH  185 

nods.  It  was  consoling  to  believe  that  the  worm  in 
the  wood  responsible  for  the  nation's  decay  was  exotic 
or  Semitic,  or  at  any  rate  parasitic,  and  that  the  true 
heart  of  the  country  was  still  British  oak.  Self- 
respect  in  a  period  of  national  adversity  is  often  main- 
tained by  a  sense  of  betrayal,  it  demands  dissociation 
in  blood,  as  well  as  in  spirit,  from  the  authors  of  the 
decline.  Riley  had  sat  next  Bruce-Swinnerton  one 
night  in  the  hotel  at  Thompsonpur,  when  the  Hunter 
Commission  dined  there  on  their  way  through  to  the 
Punjab.  "  Is  that  the  Commission  or  the  vernacular 
band?  "  the  Colonel  asked  him,  as  the  British  and 
Indian  inquisitors  filed  into  the  room  to  take  their 
places  at  a  table  set  apart  from  the  common  herd  as 
a  safeguard  against  intimacy  with  the  presumably 
biassed.  "  By  Jove,  I  wish  they  would  have  me  up  and 
ask  me  what  I  think.  I'd  make  'em  sit  up.  Let  them 
ask  me  the  cause  of  this  uppishness  and  I'd  tell  them 
straight.  Concessions !  We  concess  a  darned  sight 
too  much.  The  only  concession  they  understand  is 
a  whack  on  the  ear  with  a  big  thick  stick.  I  haven't 
been  thirty-seven  years  in  the  country  without  learning 
something  about  the  natives." 

Riley  told  Skene  afterwards  that  he  had  felt  drawn 
to  * '  the  old  buffer. ' '  Bruce- Swinnerton  had  commanded 
one  of  the  best  cavalry  regiments  in  the  Indian  Army 
and  he  swore  by  the  only  type  of  Indian  he  knew,  the 
Awans  and  Tiwanas  of  the  Punjab.  "  I  wouldn't 
mind  giving  these  fellows  Swaraj,"  he  would  say  when 
there  was  talk  of  "  the  scuttle."  "  They  know  how 
to  look  after  themselves."  When  Bruce-Swinnerton 
went  north,  his  retired  Indian  officers  would  troop  to 
the  railway  station  to  meet  his  train.  These  splendid 
old  veterans  would  regain  the  alertness  and  erectness 
of  youth  as  they  stood  to  attention  on  the  platform 


136  ABDICATION 

when  his  carriage  drew  up,  sunning  themselves  in  his 
smile.  "  Yes,  Bruce-Swinnerton  is  all  right,"  Riley 
said,  "  so  long  as  he  sticks  to  his  Tiwanas.  No  doubt 
if  you  told  them  that  India  was  to  have  Swaraj  they 
would  ask  him  to  be  their  Padishah." 

Riley  discovered  that  he  had  been  lacking  in  tolerance 
and  sjnnpathy  in  his  attitude  to  the  old  school.  They 
were  rooted  in  their  convictions,  and  it  was  as  impossible 
to  dig  them  up  as  to  induce  a  bigot  to  change  his 
religion  in  his  last  hours.  And  there  was  something 
fine  about  them.  They  had  lived  clean  lives,  single- 
minded,  consistent,  sane.  In  all  direct,  personal 
relations  with  Indians  their  influence  had  been  whole- 
some. In  a  curious  way  he  cared  for  their  opinion. 
He  was  hurt  and  depressed  afterwards,  in  the  days  of 
the  Dyer  controversy,  when  Bruce-Swinnerton  scowled 
at  him  as  if  he  were  a  pariah,  whenever  the  two  met  in 
the  club.  For  Hill's  or  Bolton's  contempt  he  did  not 
care  a  hang.  He  returned  it  with  interest.  Bruce- 
Swinnerton  was  a  person,  an  elemental  force,  far  from 
despicable.  Bolton  had  spent  his  days  in  the  Secreta- 
riat, poring  over  files ;  he  had  no  living  contact  with  men. 
His  self-sufficient  and  academic  imperialism,  his 
cultivated  blindness  to  the  real  issue,  annoyed  Riley 
even  more  than  the  reasoned  and  intelligent  arrogance 
of  Hill. 

"  I  want  to  throw  a  brick  at  that  fellow,"  he  said  of 
Hill.  "  I  should  like  to  scrape  Bolton's  belly  with 
red-hot  nails.  Hill  never  had  a  soul;  Bolton,  if  he 
ever  had  one,  has  locked  it  up  in  an  iron  box." 

"  A  dispatch-box,"  Skene  suggested. 

Riley  nodded.  "  As  long  as  the  Secretariat  have 
got  their  rotten  arguments  on  paper,"  he  said,  "  they 
think  they  are  governing.  Government  is  Babuised 
from  top  to  bottom.    They've  no  relation  with  facts." 


BARKATULLAH  187 


III 


Riley  felt  a  little  apprehensive  as  he  climbed  the  cork- 
screw stair  to  the  Roshni  office.  He  half  expected  that 
Barkatullah  would  spit  at  him.  Every  utterance  of 
the  man,  written  or  spoken,  that  he  had  heard  was 
venomous.  "  The  rabid  swab  will  probably  bite  you," 
Hill  had  warned  him.  They  had  discussed  Barkatullah 
at  the  club,  and  what  Bolton  called  "  the  etiology  of 
this  particular  breed  of  Extremist."  Bolton  was  as 
fond  of  long  abstract  words  as  Banarsi  Das. 

"  What's  the  maggot  the  fellow  has  got  in  his  head  ?  " 
Skene  asked. 

Hill  summed  Barkatullah  up  as  a  successful  trades- 
man. "Poison  pays,"  he  said;  "the  stronger  the 
dose  the  bigger  the  sale.  There  is  no  money  in  praising 
Government." 

"  The  Moderates  are  having  a  rotten  time,"  Dean 
observed,  "  especially  the  Moderate  editors.  Poor  old 
Shams-ud-Din  came  to  me  the  other  day  and  com- 
plained that  the  circulation  of  The  Aj,  the  oldest  paper 
in  Gopalpura,  had  fallen  to  450,  and  asked  me  why 
Government  could  not  help  their  friends.  '  What 
can  Government  do  for  you  ?  '  I  asked  him,  and  he 
said,  '  Take  action  against  The  Roshni,  The  Ittihad 
and  The  Kali  Yuga.  Put  Barkatullah  in  gaol.  How 
can  a  loyalist  compete  with  this  sort  of  thing  ?  '  And 
he  produced  a  handbill  with  which  Barkatullah  had 
plastered  the  walls  of  the  city.  '  Hindus,  embrace 
your  Muhammadan  brethren ;  they  are  going  to  leave 
you.'  The  Roshni  sales  went  up  to  6000  the  next 
morning.  Barkatullah  works  on  the  same  plan  as  an 
Afghan  agent  I  met  in  Peshawar  the  other  day.  I  asked 
him  why  he  sent  such  absurd  and  extravagant  yarns  to 


188  ABDICATION 

Kabul.  No  one  would  believe  him,  I  told  him,  and  he 
would  be  discredited.  '  But,  Sahib,'  he  explained,  '  it 
is  what  they  want.  If  I  do  not  provide  exciting  and 
interesting  news  they  will  become  tired  and  displeased. 
I  will  receive  no  more  money.  They  will  appoint 
someone  else.' " 

"  Shams-ud-Din  has  his  title  and  his  grant  of  land 
from  Government,"  Hill  explained;  "he  can't  have 
his  cake  and  eat  it." 

"  A  good  many  of  them  do,  all  the  same,"  Dean  said. 

*'  But  surely,"  Bolton  objected,  "  there  are  one  or 
two  good  Moderate  papers  that  have  influence." 

*'  Not  in  the  New  Province,"  said  Riley,  "  and  can 
you  wonder !  Moderate  !  The  very  word  is  a  knell 
to  enthusiasm.  One  can't  get  excited  about  being 
Moderate.  If  you  were  an  Indian,  Bolton,  would  you 
be  a  Moderate  ?  " 

Bolton  protested  that  he  would  most  certainly  be  a 
Moderate,  and  Riley  believed  him.  "  Shams-ud-Din," 
he  reflected,  "  is  a  poor  sort  of  creature.  You  won't 
find  a  bigger  reactionary  than  an  Indian  with  vested 
interests  who  has  burnt  his  boats."  "  The  worst  of 
these  Moderates,"  he  said  aloud,  "  is  that  whenever 
they  come  out  into  the  open  they  expect  a  reward 
from  Government.  You  can't  make  them  understand 
that  it  is  themselves  they  are  working  for  and  not  us. 
That  is  the  slave  mentality,  I  suppose,  which  Gandhi 
says  we  are  responsible  for.  There  is  probably  some- 
thing in  it." 

"  Go  to  a  Native  State,"  Hill  said,  "  if  you  want  to 
study  slave  mentality,  you  will  find  a  Maharajah's 
Durbar  a  good  object  lesson." 

For  a  moment  Riley  felt  that  Hill  had  reHeved  his 
countrymen  of  an  unpleasant  charge.  Then  he 
remembered  that  Gandhi,  Muhammad  Ali  and  Shaukat 


BARKATULLAH  189 

Ali,  the  most  imslave-like  trio,  were  all  by  birth  subjects 
of  Native  States,  and  so  was  Barkatullah  for  that 
matter.  He  pointed  this  out  to  Hill.  But  Hill  only 
said,  *'  Why  can't  Government  repatriate  them  then  ? 
or  if  they  don't  like  us,  why  can't  they  go  back  on  their 
own  if  they  want  to  enjoy  the  blessings  of  Swaraj  ? 
The  Nawab  of  Dharampur  would  have  a  short  way  with 
Barkatullah." 

"  Slave  mentality  is  not  the  product  of  our  education," 
Bolton  observed,  "  it  is  an  incident  of  the  system,  the 
contact  of  the  dynamic  with  the  static.  The  static 
does  not  resist,  it  is  carried  on  obediently.  The  trouble 
now  is  that  we  have  taught  the  East  to  be  dynamic, 
hence  the  collision.  And  we  have  done  it  with  our 
eyes  open." 

f;  For  once  Riley  agreed  with  Bolton.  He  thought 
this  quite  the  wisest  thing  the  Secretary  for  Govern- 
ment had  ever  said.  The  inference  was  as  obvious 
as  an  axiom  of  Euclid.  The  two  dynamic  forces  must 
move  on  the  same  lines  or  one  would  sweep  away  the 
other.  There  was  much  abstract  wisdom  in  the 
Montagu  solution,  on  paper  at  any  rate. 

"  It  follows  then,"  Skene  said,  "  that  Gandhi's 
soul  force  is  a  product  of  our  education.  You  can 
take  that  as  a  text  for  your  next  leader,  Riley." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  blaspheme  the  Vedas  in  the 
Gazette,"  Riley  said.  "  What  I  should  like  to  know, 
though,  is  exactly  how  much  soul  force  we  or  Gandhi 
have  contributed  to  Barkatullah.  There  must  be 
some  sort  of  inspiration  in  the  man  or  he  wouldn't 
have  a  following." 

"  I  can't  quite  associate  Barkatullah  with  any  of 
the  Christian  virtues,"  Dean  said.  "  The  last  time  I 
saw  him  he  gave  me  the  impression  that  some  heavy 
Englishman  in  hob-nailed  boots,  fourteens,  had  just 


140  ABDICATION 

trodden  on  his  toes.  His  race-hatred  is  probably 
genuine  enough,  only  it  pays  him  to  exploit  it.  It  is 
an  attractive  game,  this  beating  of  the  big  drum, 
especially  now.  The  glory  increases  as  the  risks 
diminish.  Most  of  the  Gopalpura  agitators  court 
prosecution  and  conviction.  Their  idea  is  that  after 
a  fortnight  or  month  at  most  in  gaol,  they  will  be 
released  by  some  Amnesty  or  Remission  Order,  and 
accepted  as  consecrated  saints  or  martyrs.  It  is  a 
cheap  price  to  pay  for  a  halo.** 

"  And  their  worldly  appetites  are  satisfied  at  the 
same  time,"  Riley  reflected.  "  Saints  and  mart5n:s 
are  fed.  They  are  f^ted  ambrosially.  And  they've  only 
got  to  thump  tubs  and  beat  drums,  which  they  love." 

"  Why  don't  you  smoke  Barkatullah  out  and  size 
him  up  yourself?  "  Dean  concluded. 

"  By  Jove,  I  will,"  Riley  exclaimed.  And  it  was 
then  that  Hill  said,  "  The  rabid  swab  will  probably 
bite  you." 

Riley  wrote  asking  for  an  appointment  and  received 
a  curt  letter  from  the  editor  of  The  Roshni  consenting 
to  see  him. 

Barkatullah,  listening  to  his  ascending  footsteps, 
was  both  flattered  and  suspicious.  Riley  was  the  first 
Englishman  who  had  called  on  him.  His  only  contacts 
with  the  dominant  race  were  oflicial.  He  had  been 
summoned  to  the  Deputy  Commissioner's  Court,  and 
he  had  stood  sullenly  before  the  D.I.G.  of  Police  in 
his  office,  denied  a  chair  and  inwardly  fulminating. 
As  Riley  expected,  he  found  Barkatullah  prepared  to 
be  on  the  defensive.  He  was  sitting  alone  on  a  mat  in 
the  middle  of  the  room,  entrenched  behind  files  of 
yellow  and  brown  foolscap  which  looked  like  packing 
paper,  copies,  as  Riley  learnt  afterwards,  of  the  evidence 
before  the   Un oflicial    Inquiry   Commission  into    the 


BARKATULLAH  141 

Punjab  Disturbances.  The  schoolroom  bench  and 
desk  at  which  he  and  Skene  had  found  Banarsi  Das  was 
unoccupied.  Through  an  open  door  he  could  see  the 
khatihs  in  the  next  room,  squatting  on  the  floor  at 
their  little  doll's-house  desks,  diligently  inscribing  the 
lithographic  sheets  which  were  to  transmit  Barkatullah's 
venom  to  the  stone. 

The  editor  of  The  Roshni  rose  stiffly  and  conse- 
quentially to  receive  his  visitor.  Riley  sized  him  up 
physically  and  mentally  as  he  crossed  the  floor.  His 
first  impressions  of  Barkatullah  apart  from  his  general 
uncouthness  were  very  much  what  he  had  anticipated, 
and  they  were  little  modified  by  further  acquaintance. 
Riley  saw  a  sad,  sullen,  square  face  like  a  trap,  not 
without  strength,  but  the  strength  of  bigotry  and 
ignorance,  a  strength  derived  from  the  instinctive 
elimination  of  any  scruple  or  doubt  that  might  injure 
the  growth  of  the  ego.  Riley  recognised  the  inherent 
bacillus.  He  had  seen  the  cultured  product  of  it  in 
the  face  of  a  cardinal.  But  Barkatullah  was  a  son  of 
the  people.  One  could  picture  him  in  a  greasy  red 
cap,  with  a  torch  in  his  hand  illuminating  the  unchained 
devil  in  him  as  he  led  the  mob  to  the  barricades.  "  The 
first  fellow  who  would  stick  a  knife  into  you,"  he  said 
to  Skene  afterwards,"  if  there  were  a  revolution." 

Physically  Barkatullah  disappointed  Riley's  expecta- 
tions. He  was  jerky,  restless,  self-conscious,  and 
lacking  in  composure  and  grace;  unusually  so  for  an 
Indian.  The  humblest  Hindustani  Mussalman  of  the 
Punjab  or  the  New  Province  is  often  clothed  with  a 
dignity  to  which  the  aristocrat  of  other  countries 
cannot  aspire;  but  Barkatullah  would  have  looked  a 
plebeian  beside  any  of  his  khatihs,  more  vital  perhaps, 
but  less  impressive.  There  was  certainly  nothing 
static  about  him.     Riley  in  his  search  for  figurative 


142  ABDICATION 

illustration  was  reminded  rather  of  a.  fluid,  permanently 
arrested  in  precipitation,  which  he  knew  could  never 
dissolve  or  congeal.  That  was  the  fault  of  our  educa- 
tion, he  supposed,  and  it  occurred  to  him  that  if 
Macaulay  could  see  this  hybrid  product  of  his  system 
he  would  turn  in  his  grave.  The  integuments  of 
Barkatullah  were  in  keeping  with  their  physical 
contents.  He  wore  frayed  shoes,  turned  up  at  the  toes, 
no  socks,  dirty  baggy  trousers,  a  dirty  homespun  coat 
and  a  dirty  little  cap,  the  kind  worn  by  cooks  and 
scullions  in  the  galleys  of  coasting  steamers,  the 
pattern  affected  by  the  Hindustani  Mussalmans  of 
Delhi,  in  Barkatullah's  case  effeminately  embroidered 
and  gummed  to  the  head.  One  oily  little  wisp  of  hair 
protruded  from  under  it.  He  had  abandoned  the  fez 
as  a  tribute  to  the  Hindu-Moslem  entente.  As  he  held 
out  his  hand  Riley  received  the  impression  of  a  wronged 
and  embittered  man.  Barkatullah  had  not  intended  at 
first  to  smile,  but  reassured  by  Riley's  easy  and  disarm- 
ing approach  he  returned  courtesy  for  courtesy. 
Barkatullah's  smile  was  deliberate  and  summoned,  as 
light  is  let  into  a  closed  room  by  the  unfastening  of  a 
shutter. 

Riley  had  rather  dreaded  the  preliminaries  of  the 
interview,  but  he  need  not  have  had  any  misgivings, 
Barkatullah  took  the  initiative  from  the  first.  He  was 
glib  and  fluent.  He  began  by  complimenting  Riley  on 
the  attitude  he  had  taken  up  in  the  Gazette  on  the 
Amritsar  question,  the  massacre  of  the  innocents  in 
Jallianwala  Bagh  and  the  culpability  of  General  Dyer. 

"  The  whole  of  India  congratulates  you,  Mr.  Riley," 
he  said,  "  on  your  bold  and  uncompromising  exposure 
of  the  dastardly  and  heinous  nature  of  the  crime 
committed  in  the  Jallianwala  Bagh." 

Riley  listened  to  this  praise  impatiently.     He  would 


BARKATULLAH  146 

not  be  drawn  into  a  discussion  on  the  subject.  He 
refused  to  deliver  alternate  blows  with  Barkatullah  on 
the  corpse  of  the  reputation  of  General  Dyer. 

Barkatullah  pointed  to  the  files  of  manuscript 
scattered  on  the  floor.  He  gloated  over  the  atrocities. 
"  There  is  a  mountain  of  evidence  here/'  he  said,  "  to 
prove  beyond  doubt  that  General  Dyer " 

"  I  do  not  defend  General  Dyer,"  Riley  said  simply. 

He  had  seen  the  whole  case  so  clearly  from  the  Indian 
point  of  view,  and  he  had  stated  it  without  fear  or 
prejudice.  He  understood  that  it  was  not  the  massacre 
that  rankled,  the  mere  killing.  Jallianwala  Bagh  was 
a  national  humiliation.  General  Dyer's  evidence 
before  the  Hunter  Commission  in  Lahore  had  stirred 
India  from  one  end  to  the  other.  He  admitted  that 
he  had  fired  into  the  mob  until  he  had  exhausted  his 
ammunition,  that  he  had  given  them  no  warning  to 
disperse,  that  he  had  not  stopped  firing  when  they  were 
running  away,  that  he  had  taken  no  care  of  the  wounded. 
He  repented  nothing.  He  boasted  that  in  the  same 
circumstances  he  would  do  the  same  thing  again. 
The  people  needed  a  lesson,  was  his  argument,  and  he 
was  afraid  that  if  he  let  this  gathering  disperse  they 
would  come  back  and  laugh  at  him.  Prestige  must  be 
upheld.  The  massacre  of  these  law-breakers  was 
justified.  The  hundreds  who  died  saved  thousands. 
That  was  exactly  what  the  German  Junker  had  said  in 
Belgium ;  and  how  the  British  nation  had  raged.  Those 
who  cried  out  against  the  Hun  and  now  defended 
General  Dyer  could  only  say,  "  In  our  case  the  end 
justified  the  means."  The  good  name  of  England  was 
blackened,  Riley  wished  General  Dyer  had  never  been 
bom.  No  wonder  India  writhed.  It  seemed  that  the 
tentacles  from  which  she  hoped  to  free  herself  by 
service  and  sacrifice  were  forever  fastened  into  her 


144  ABDICATION 

soul.  The  crawling  and  salaaming  orders,  the  public 
whippings,  the  bombing  by  aeroplanes  were  symbols 
of  frightfulness — on  the  one  side  racial  arrogance,  on 
the  other  national  degradation.  If  it  had  been  a 
massacre  of  ill-armed  Abors  or  Tibetans  on  a  frontier 
show,  in  legitimate  warfare,  the  officer  responsible 
would  have  deserved  to  be  cashiered,  but  this  gathering 
of  Punjab  peasants,  the  kith  and  kin  of  the  men  who 
stood  by  us  through  the  war,  who  had  responded 
chivalrously  with  offers  of  service  when  we  were  in 

need To  the   Indians  it   seemed   that  we   had 

betrayed  them;  their  loyalty  had  saved  us.  Had 
India  not  been  loyal  we  could  not  have  been  free.  It 
is  true  that  we  might  have  survived  in  Europe,  but  not 
in  "  the  Dependency."  We  had  used  the  freedom  she 
had  given  us  to  make  her  more  dependent.  We  had 
shaken  off  the  grip  of  the  Hun  to  adopt  the  Prussian 
heel.  The  long  jack-boot,  iron-shod  with  horseshoe 
and  nails,  with  which  we  trod  at  Amritsar,  was  indirectly 
the  gift  of  the  Punjab.  That  was  the  view  of  chivalry 
vicariously  besmirched.  And  to  the  reply,  "  Ranting 
fool,  we  must  put  down  a  rebellion,  we  owe  it  to  the 
Indians  themselves,"  Riley  answered,  "  Hang  the  rebels 
or  rioters  by  all  means ;  but  don't  insult  and  trample 
on  a  whole  Province  and  break  out  into  panicky  fright- 
fulness like  a  Hun." 

Riley  had  said  all  this  in  the  Gazette  and  it  had 
brought  down  on  him  a  storm  of  abuse.  Old  Bruce- 
Swinnerton  had  written  to  him,  calling  him  "  a  fouler 
of  his  own  nest."  Riley  had  published  the  letter  with 
such  comments  as  the  un-British  nature  of  the  act  he 
repudiated  made  easy.  He  had  had  a  certain  amount 
of  support  from  his  own  countrymen.  Wace-Holland 
for  one  was  on  his  side.  Now,  to  his  disgust,  he  found 
himself  hunting  in   the  same  pack  as   Barkatullah. 


BARKATULLAH  145 

Here  was  this  canting  hypocrite  yapping  by  his  side, 
an  accomplice  by  some  trick  of  irony,  making  him 
sick  with  his  hysterical  clap-trap  about  "  heroes  "  and 
"  martyrs,"  as  if  these  poor  devils  who  had  been 
killed  had  done  something  noble  in  faiHng  to  get  out 
of  the  way  of  the  bullets. 

Riley  thought  of  all  the  things  he  might  say  to 
BarkatuUah  about  General  Dyer.  He  did  not  say 
them,  but  for  the  first  time  it  occurred  to  him  that  he 
might  have  been  unjust  in  his  judgment.  He  hoped 
in  his  heart  that  he  had  been  unjust.  He  searched  for 
evidence  of  this  injustice  with  curious  eagerness,  for  if 
he  failed  to  find  any,  he  was  the  more  associated  with 
this  poisonous  fellow  at  his  side.  After  all,  he  reminded 
himself.  General  Dyer  acted  honestly  according  to  his 
lights.  And  there  W£ls  nothing  crooked  about  the 
fellows  who  supported  his  surgeon's  argument  of  a 
limb  amputated  to  save  a  life.  A  calculation  of  the 
kind  in  cold  blood  would  not  have  been  easy  early  in 
1914,  but  the  war  had  brought  us  all  down  to  realities 
and  hardened  us  and  given  us  the  faculty  of  holding 
compassion  in  abeyance.  Perhaps  we  were  a  little 
hysterical  about  "  fright  fulness  "  at  the  start.  The 
Hun  learnt  to  rub  his  nose  in  blood  and  filth  earher 
than  we  did,  that  was  all;  though,  thank  God,  we 
were  not  in  the  habit  of  saying,  **  I  am  frightful  only 
to  be  kind."  Still  Dyer  and  his  school  believed  in 
their  decency  and  kindness,  and  that  was  the  main 
thing.  Anyhow,  Dyer  was  straight  about  it.  He  was 
British  enough  when  it  came  to  cross-examination. 
Riley  pictured  BarkatuUah  in  his  place,  how  he  would 
have  lied  and  shuffled  and  prevaricated  in  his  evidence 
and  wriggled  like  the  worm  he  was. 

But  Riley  did  not  use  any  of  these  arguments.  He 
turned  to  BarkatuUah,   to  whom  he  had  not   been 

L 


146  ABDICATION 

listening,  though  he  was  aware  that  his  rantings  were 
still  unctuously  elegiac,  and  shocked  him  by  saying : 

"  Mourning  I  it  is  the  biggest  bit  of  luck  you've  had. 
It  puts  you  in  the  right.  If  the  victims  of  the  JaUian- 
wala  Bagh  were  to  come  to  life  so  that  it  could  be 
proved  that  no  wrong  had  been  done  the  Punjab,  and 
there  had  been  no  massacre  at  all,  there  would  be  real 
mourning  in  your  camp.  It  would  blunt  the  sharpest 
weapon  you  have.  Don't  pretend  you  would  hft  a 
finger  to  bring  them  to  life." 

"  How  can  you  say  this  of  me,  Mr.  Riley?  "  Barka- 
tuUah  protested. 

"  Nothing  would  disappoint  you  more,"  Riley 
continued,  "  unless  it  were  the  settlement  of  the 
Turkish  Peace  Terms  in  such  a  way  as  to  take  the 
edge  off  the  Khilafat  grievance." 

*'  All  true  Muhammadans  would  die  for  the  Khila- 
fat," Barkatullah  answered,  and  Riley  wondered  why 
this  witness-bearer  was  only  deprecatory  when  he 
should  have  been  angry.  This  was  not  the  firebrand 
he  expected  to  see. 

"  You  are  determined  to  blacken  the  name  of  the 
EngHsh,"  he  said,  "  if  it  were  not  the  Khilafat  it  would 
be  something  else.  Why  I  came  to  see  you,  Moulvi 
Barkatullah,  was  to  ask  you  if  you  really  believe  all 
the  unpleasant  things  you  say  about  my  countr5mien. 
Do  you  beheve,  for  instance,  that  we  introduced  plague 
into  India  and  foster  it  ?  that  we  cut  off  the  fingers  of 
the  Dacca  weavers  in  order  to  encourage  our  own 
industries?  that  we  drain  India  of  its  wealth  and 
deliberately  impoverish  the  country  in  order  to  emas- 
culate the  people?  It  was  The  Roshni,  wasn't  it, 
that  made  the  Meteorological  Department  responsible 
for  the  cyclone  in  Bengal?  Or  did  you  bring  that 
charge  into  your  speech  at  Mograon  ?     By  the  way,  I 


BARKATULLAH  147 

hear  you  told  the  zemindars  that  Government  were 
penaUsing  the  Mograon  tehsil  by  cutting  off  their  canal 
water." 

Barkatullah  looked  pained.  "  The  bureaucracy 
never  hear  the  truth,"  he  said,  "  their  mind  is  poisoned 
by  the  G.I.D.  subordinates,  who  invent  these  things 
and  put  them  into  the  mouths  of  pubUc  men, and 
patriots  in  order  to  please  Government." 

"  But  The  Roshni  ?  " 

**  Mr.  Riley,  I  am  a  single-minded  seeker  after 
truth.  If  you  can  find  a  single  word  in  The  Roshni 
that  you  can  convince  me  is  imtrue,  I  will  withdraw 
it." 

"  Do  you  really  beheve,"  Riley  asked  him,  "  that 
the  British  flag  is  flying  over  the  Kaaba?  " 

Barkatullah  regarded  him  with  a  pitying  smile  as 
one  deluded  by  prejudice.  "  Can  you  believe  this  of 
me  ?  "he  said.    "  I  have  never  made  such  a  statement." 

Riley  quoted  the  passage  and  the  date  of  publication. 

"  That  was  a  poetical  contribution,"  Barkatullah 
explained  indulgently.  "  The  poet  used  metaphor, 
'  Breetish  fla-ag  is  flying  over  Mecca.'  "  He  mouthed 
the  passage  unctuously.  "  That  is  to  say,  British 
poUtical  influence  is  paramount  in  Muhammadan 
Holy  Places.  The  poet  Shakespeare  also  uses  meta- 
phor, *  the  slings  and  arrows  of  outra-ageous  fortune.' 
By  slings  and  arrows  he  does  not  mean  missiles  of 
wood  and  stone,  but  weapons  used  to  injure  soul.  It 
is  soul  of  Islam  that  British  want  to  destroy  by  dese- 
crating Holy  Places.  All  Muhammadans  are  ready 
to  die  for  their  religion.  Christians  do  not  understand 
this.  No,  it  is  spiritual  flag,  the  poet  means,  not 
striped  cotton  Imperial  emblem." 

Again  BarkatuUah's  smile  implied  a  world  of  pity 
for    the    groping,    uninteUigent    materiahsm    of    the 


148  ABDICATION 

Western  mind.  It  was  an  implication  of  forbearance 
that  he  had  borrowed  from  Gandhi.  He  had  observed 
it  in  the  Mahatma  when  he  was  reasoning  with  those 
in  outer  darkness.  Only  it  was  less  effective  in  an  eye 
that  was  alternately  shifty  and  intense. 

"  The  masses  don't  understand  metaphor,"  Riley 
said,  "  they  will  think  you  mean  the  Union  Jack. 
Besides,  there  has  been  no  desecration  of  the  Holy 
Places." 

"  Not  physical  desecration,"  BarkatuUah  explained, 
"it  is  spiritual  injury.  The  pilgrimage  to  Mecca  is 
no  longer  acceptable  to  God,  because  there  is  no 
independent  Imam.  The  Sherif  being  a  rebel  and 
usurper  is  not  a  true  representative  of  the  Khalifa, 
and  the  Khalifa  is  not  independent  because  he  is 
puppet  in  the  hands  of  the  Allies.  Did  not  the  British 
persuade  the  Sherif  to  fight  against  the  Khalifa? 
Was  not  this  treachery  to  Islam?  " 

"  The  Sultan  has  never  exercised  more  than  a 
nominal  control  over  the  Hedjaz,"  Riley  said. 
"  Naturally  they  joined  the  AUies  in  the  war;  they 
needed  no  persuasion.  The  Arabs  have  been  fighting 
the  Turks  for  their  independence  for  generations. 
As  for  the  guardianship  of  the  Holy  Places,  the  Mos- 
lems must  settle  it  among  themselves.  Anyhow,  they 
remain  in  Moslem  hands.  The  Sherif  is  a  Koresh 
after  all;  he  is  a  lineal  descendant  of  Muhammad, 
and  the  Arabs  of  the  Hedjaz  are  the  Prophet's  own 
people." 

Riley  would  not  have  emphasised  this  unpalatable 
truth  in  the  Gazette.  It  only  irritated  Indian  Moslems. 
It  is  no  good  telling  the  Muhammadan  who  his  Khalif 
is,  he  will  choose  his  own  Khalif.  Riley  once  heard 
an  Enghsh  official  explaining  to  a  Muhammadan  of 
Delhi,  a  poet  of  some  reputation,  that  the  Sultan  of 


BARKATULLAH  149 

Turkey  was  only  de  facto  Khali f,  whereas  the  Sherif 
was  Khalif  de  jure,  whence  it  followed  that  the  dedica- 
tion of  the  Indian  Moslem  to  the  Sultan  as  his  spiritual 
head  had  more  politics  than  piety  in  it.  The  argu- 
ment and  its  application  gave  Riley  the  text  for  one 
of  his  "  Imaginary  Conversations "  in  the  Gazette. 
"  The  spiritual  home  of  Shakespeare  is  Berlin,"  said 
Treitschke  to  Rupert  Brooke,  "  the  English  neither 
understand  nor  appreciate  him." 

BarkatuUah,  however,  was  not  a  pious  Moslem. 
His  sensibilities  need  not  be  considered.  If  he  had 
cared  for  the  Turk,  he  would  not  have  embezzled  the 
funds  he  collected  for  the  widows  and  orphans  of 
the  victims  murdered  in  AnatoHa  by  the  truculent 
Armenian. 

Riley  expected  indignant  repudiation,  but  Barka- 
tuUah only  smiled  sadly  at  his  championship  of  the 
Sherif.  Evidently  the  editor  of  The  Roshni  was  not 
the  zealot  he  supposed.  It  was  difficult  to  explain 
his  mildness.  Bolton's  diagnosis  was  probably  not 
far  from  the  mark.  "  BarkatuUah  is  a  tradesman  : 
poison  pays."  Riley  remembered  that  he  was  not  in 
the  Roshni  office  as  a  customer  or  cHent,  but  as  one 
to  whom  the  editor  was  eager  to  legitimise  his  trade. 
Therefore  BarkatuUah  exhibited  no  samples  of  venom. 
He  had  no  inclination  to  attack  or  confound  Riley, 
only  to  lead  him  gently  to  the  conviction  that  he, 
BarkatuUah,  was  a  consistent  votary  in  the  temple 
of  Truth. 

"  I  do  not  care  for  handcuffs  or  chains,"  he  said. 
"  I  know  that  one  day  Government  may  arrest  me. 
In  attacking  the  KhUafat  they  leave  me  the  choice  of 
either  being  a  British  subject  or  a  Moslem.  I  prefer 
to  be  a  Moslem.  One  cannot  serve  God  and  a  Govern- 
ment that  is  dar-ul'harb  at  the  same  time." 


150  ABDICATION 

Then  he  told  Riley  that  whenever  he  woke  up  in  the 
morning  he  expected  to  find  a  poHceman  by  his  bed. 
He  was  ready  to  go  to  gaol  for  his  country  and  his 
religion.  But  if  religious  liberty  existed  Government 
ought  to  be  ashamed  to  punish  pious  Moslems  for  their 
convictions.  Soon  every  Muhammadan  in  India 
would  be  prepared  to  sacrifice  his  life  and  hberty  for 
the  Khilafat,  but  there  would  not  be  room  for  them 
all  in  the  gaols.  What  would  Government  do  then? 
Did  they  intend  to  take  action  against  the  agitators  ? 

Riley  gathered  that  BarkatuUah  was  sounding  him 
as  to  how  near  he  was  to  the  brink,  what  further  rope 
Government  would  give  him ;  and  he  told  him  he  was 
lucky  to  be  at  large  and  that  he  probably  owed  it  to 
the  Royal  Amnesty  to  political  offenders.  "  Govern- 
ment are  very  patient  and  long-suffering,"  he  said, 
"  but  when  your  propaganda  begins  to  take  effect 
they  can't  very  well  avoid  putting  you  in  gaol.  When 
the  zemindars  of  Mograon,  for  instance,  knock  their 
D.C.  on  the  head,  or  when  the  Moslems  coming  out  of 
the  Mosque  after  Friday  prayers  practise  jehad  on 
the  first  Christian  they  meet,  it  would  be  clearly  safer 
for  everybody  if  you  were  out  of  harm's  way.  Per- 
sonally, if  I  were  the  Governor,  I  would  have  you 
locked  up  before  any  of  these  things  happened." 

"  But  I  always  preach  non- violent  agitation," 
BarkatuUah  protested. 

Riley's  smile  was  more  eloquent  than  contradiction. 
"It  is  not  worth  spilling  blood  about  it,"  he  said; 
"  you  have  got  Swaraj.  It's  begun  and  can't  go  back 
You'll  see  whatever  the  new  Councils  decide  Govern- 
ment will  pass  as  law,  unless  it  involves  a  condition 
of  anarchy  or  bankruptcy  which  a  child  might  foresee." 

This  was  not  at  all  the  Utopia  that  BarkatuUah 
desired.     It  precluded  haloes  and  ruined  trade.    He 


BARKATULLAH  151 

smiled  incredulously.  "  But,  Mr.  Riley,"  he  said,  in 
tones  which  he  might  use  to  a  merchant  in  the  bazar 
who  claimed  a  preposterous  price  for  his  wares,  '*  the 
reforms  are  only  a  toy  after  all,  no  doubt — ^what  real 
liberty  has  India  got?  Repeal  the  Press  Act,  the 
Seditious  Meetings  Act,  the  Rowlatt  Act,  the  Defence 
of  India  Act.  .  .  ." 

"  You'll  see,"  Riley  interrupted,  *'  in  a  year  or  two 
your  legislators  will  repeal  any  Act  they  Hke." 

BarkatuUah  smiled  again — it  was  a  duel  of  in- 
credulous smiles;  and  if  the  facial  expression  of 
increduUty  is  any  test  it  must  be  admitted  that  Barka- 
tuUah won.  But  it  was  all  very  good-tempered.  The 
editor  of  The  Roshni  followed  Riley  down  the  steps 
and  stood  with  him  in  the  square  outside  under  the 
signboard  of  the  Rising  Sun,  the  crest  of  the  "  Illumi- 
nator." The  porcupine  beams  shone  down  on  him, 
and  the  emblazoned  motto,  "  How  can  the  shades  of 
darkness  resist  the  flood  of  Hght  ?  "  From  this 
vantage  he  addressed  the  back  of  the  editor  of  The 
Thompsonpur  Gazette  as  he  mounted  and  walked  his 
horse  towards  Amir  Khan's  mosque. 

"  Send  me  your  article  on  the  Reforms,  Mr.  Riley. 
I  will  pubUsh  it  in  The  Roshni,  provided,  of  course,  I 
am  convinced  that  what  you  say  is  true.  You  too 
are  man  of  principle.  You  will  understand  my  posi- 
tion. You  will  not  ask  me  to  pubUsh  anything  I 
cannot  reconcile  with  dictates  of  conscience." 

BarkatuUah  felt  that  he  had  vindicated  his  faith. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  PARIAH   OF  FORTUNE 


Banarsi  Das  occupied  a  small  room  adjoining 
Riley's  in  the  editor's  block  of  The  Thompsonpur 
Gazette.  He  had  learnt  to  typewrite  and  correct 
proofs.  His  English  was  a  credit  to  Gandeshwar  and 
Skene.  He  had  interviewed  his  old  Principal  more 
than  once  in  connection  with  University  news.  He  had 
even  attended  political  meetings  for  the  Gazette.  The 
editing  of  his  reports  was  a  hobby  of  Riley's,  a  pleasant 
diversion  in  routine.  The  flowers  of  speech  that 
perished  in  the  proofs  he  preserved  in  an  antholog}^ 
probably  the  only  relic  of  Thompsonpur  journalism 
that  exists. 

Eight  months  had  passed  since  the  Indus  restored 
Banarsi  Das  to  the  secure  paths  that  he  forsook  for 
perilous  adventure  at  the  instance  of  Jemal  Khan. 
He  was  completely  whitewashed  in  the  eyes  of  the 
benign  Government.  Dean,  as  ultimate  arbiter, 
announced  him  harmless.  A  pardon  had  been  offered 
all  the  muhajarin  who  were  willing  to  return  to  their 
homes,  and  there  was  no  reason  why  it  should  not  be 
extended  to  Banarsi  Das,  though  it  might  be  objected, 
of  course,  in  the  spirit  of  the  counsel  for  the  prosecution, 
that  his  return  had  been  involuntary,  and  the  manner 
of  his  restitution  to  British  citizenship,  to  say  the  least 

152 


THE   PARIAH   OF   FORTUNE  158 

of  it,  unorthodox.  Still  it  was  generally  recognised 
that  Banarsi  Das'  being  at  large  did  not  constitute  a 
serious  danger  to  the  British  Raj .  Nor  was  he  suspected 
of  any  hankering  to  revisit  the  inhospitable  approaches 
to  the  Cave  of  Adullam. 

Even  Jemal  Khan  had  returned,  pardoned  but 
impenitent.  Banarsi  Das  had  met  him  once  outside 
the  Gazette.  He  was  very  satisfied  with  himself  and 
all  the  world  that  morning  until  his  encounter  with 
Jemal  Khan.  The  twelve-o'clock  edition  of  the  Gazette 
had  published  his  half-column  report  of  a  Municipal 
meeting,  and  Riley  had  only  made  fifteen  corrections 
in  English  and  eliminated  ten  lines.  Jemal  Khan 
stopped  dead  when  he  recognised  Banarsi  Das,  who  at 
the  moment  of  contact  had  visions  of  the  editorial 
chair,  and  was  walking,  or  floating,  abstractedly  in 
his  dreams.  He  was  carried  by  them  unconsciously 
through  the  gate  into  the  premises  of  the  Gazette  like 
a  weed  in  a  current,  and  would  not  have  seen  Jemal 
Khan  had  he  not  been  standing  on  the  edge  of  the  pave- 
ment, right  in  his  path,  where  the  in-and-out  drive 
takes  off  from  the  road.  The  Wahabi,  scowling 
deliberately,  muttered  the  single  word  "  Yezid  "  and 
raked  him  with  the  battery  of  his  scorn.  Banarsi  Das 
shuffled  off  the  pavement  and  hurried  down  the  drive 
to  the  office,  as  if  real  shrapnel  was  spattering  the 
ground  behind  him.  He  dared  not  look  twice  at 
Jemal  Khan.  The  day  was  spoilt  for  him;  the 
Wahabi's  witness-bearing  contempt  had  withered  his 
pride.  He  remembered  the  oaths  he  had  made  before 
Jemal  Khan  with  the  Koran  on  his  head.  The  scene 
of  the  serai  at  Darband  came  back  to  him,  his  physical 
exhaustion,  Jemal  Khan's  covenanting  footsteps,  the 
discovery  of  the  hopelessness  of  his  living  up  to  his 
dedication,    Jemal    Khan's   ruthless   betrayal   of   his 


154  ABDICATION 

weakness  to  the  Bulbul  at  Jahar.  He  felt  the  Shinwari's 
fingers  at  his  throat  in  the  dark  tomb,  and  the  dangUng 
rope  entangled  in  his  feet  as  he  was  carried  down  to 
the  Indus,  too  terrified  to  struggle  or  speak.  He  lived 
through  again  the  sacrificial  trussing  on  the  raft  until 
the  type  in  front  of  him  became  blurred.  At  these 
moments  the  damp  pulpy  smell  of  the  galley  fresh 
from  the  press  was  sweet  and  comforting.  Jemal 
Khan  had  been  to  Kabul,  he  heard.  He  was  glad  that 
he  had  come  back.  It  diminished  the  spiritual  gulf 
between  them,  and  the  Wahabi's  privilege  of  contempt. 
But  he  dreaded  another  encounter. 

Three  weeks  after  this  he  saw  the  Shinwari.  The 
brothers  Shaukat  and  Muhammad  Ali  were  passing 
through  Gopalpura,  and  the  local  Khilafat  Committee 
had  prepared  an  ovation  for  them  at  the  station.  Riley 
sent  Banarsi  Das  to  report.  Banarsi  Das  had  seen 
little  of  Gopalpura  since  his  return  from  the  frontier. 
Riley,  no  doubt  advisedly,  had  found  him  quarters 
at  the  back  of  the  Gazette  ;  he  was  translated  physically 
as  well  as  mentally  to  Thompsonpur.  The  crowd 
waiting  on  the  platform  at  the  railway  station  revived 
many  ghosts  but  few  regrets.  Some  of  them  had 
thrilled  to  the  eloquence  of  the  Bulbul  in  the  graveyard 
of  Ain-ul-Quzzat.  There  was  Abdul  Rabi,  the  moulvi 
of  Amir  Khan's  mosque  who  had  testified  to  Banarsi 
Das*  trustworthiness  as  a  muhajir  and  a  missionary  of 
Islam  on  the  ninety-ninth  page  of  his  Koran.  Banarsi 
Das  gave  him  a  wide  berth.  But  it  was  not  easy  to 
give  a  wide  berth  to  everybody  he  did  not  wish  to  meet. 
The  crowd  was  so  compact  that  one  had  to  move  with 
its  impulses,  and  in  trying  to  avoid  Abdul  Rabi  he 
nearly  collided  with  Jemal  Khan.  Then  as  he  recoiled 
from  the  covenanter  he  saw  a  new  danger-signal  ahead ; 
the  white  Delhi  cap  isolated  among  black  and  red 


THE   PARIAH  OF  FORTUNE  156 

astrakhans  and  fezes  was  the  unmistakable  headgear 
of  Barkatullah.  Banarsi  Das  had  not  met  his  old 
employer  since  the  day  he  received  Skene  and  Riley 
in  the  Roshni  office.  He  feared  and  hated  him.  There 
was  peril  and  embarrassment  for  him  on  all  sides. 

Soon  the  rumble  of  the  train  was  heard,  the  platform 
began  to  shake,  and  the  packed  throng  moved  soHdly 
towards  the  engine.  As  the  train  drew  in  the  followers 
of  Shaukat  and  Muhammad  Ali  stood  in  the  doors  and 
crowded  to  the  windows  of  the  carriages,  but  the  great 
men  themselves  did  not  appear  and  no  one  was  quite 
certain  which  part  of  the  train  was  consecrated  by 
their  presence.  The  surging  towards  the  engine  was 
followed  by  a  reverse  movement  towards  the  guard's 
van.  Then  a  subdued  cheer  indicated  the  compart- 
ment next  the  dining-car  as  the  sanctuary,  exactly 
opposite  the  position  taken  up  by  Banarsi  Das. 
Shaukat  Ali  stood  at  the  door  of  his  carriage  smiling 
graciously  in  the  attitude  of  a  prima-donna,  making 
rapid  dabs  at  his  forehead  by  way  of  salute,  not  at  all 
the  haggard  and  careworn  figure  Banarsi  Das  had 
expected,  emaciated  by  an  agony  of  apprehension  for 
the  Turk.  He  had  the  appearance  of  a  jolly  fat 
Russian  monk.  Muhammad  Ali  behind  him  was 
obscured  by  his  bulky  presence.  As  the  crowd  surged 
towards  the  carriage,  the  section  that  held  Banarsi 
Das  was  pressed  in  on  both  sides.  The  Khilafat 
Committee  forged  a  way  through,  and  once  more 
Banarsi  Das  was  dismayed  by  the  proximity  of  Abdul 
Rabi,  Barkatullah  and  Jemal  Khan.  In  the  excite- 
ment, however,  he  was  not  regarded.  All  was  con- 
fusion. The  Khilafat  volunteers,  who  were  present  to 
restrain  the  crowd  and  keep  a  passage  open  for  the 
Committee,  were  now  a  helpless  rabble  only  dis- 
tinguishable by  the  black  bands  over  their  shoulders 


156  ABDICATION 

and  the  poles  they  carried  with  the  pennons  of  the 
crescentade.  No  speech  could  be  heard  in  this  hubbub. 
Banarsi  Das  could  see  that  Barkatullah  was  reading  an 
address  from  a  scroll  which,  for  want  of  elbow-room,  he 
held  up  above  his  head  on  a  level  with  the  straggling 
banners.  His  periods  were  inaudible,  and  Banarsi 
Das  as  a  conscientious  reporter  began  burrowing  his 
way  towards  him. 

He  was  barely  three  yards  from  the  Ali  brothers 
when  he  looked  up  and  saw  the  Shinwari  standing 
on  the  footboard  of  the  carriage  beside  Shaukat  Ali. 
Banarsi  Das  was  recognised.  The  magnificent  young 
tribesman  fixed  him  with  a  glare  of  angry  surprise, 
which  seemed  to  say,  "  You  have  escaped,  betrayer  of 
Islam,  but  wait  till  I  go  hunting  again."  He  touched 
the  sleeve  of  the  man  by  his  side,  spoke  a  word  in  his 
ear,  and  pointed  a  minatory  finger  at  the  abject  figure 
on  the  platform.  Banarsi  Das  felt  that  the  eyes  of  the 
multitude  were  turned  on  him  in  hate.  For  a  moment 
he  was  too  paralysed  to  move.  Then  he  dived  like 
one  taking  cover  from  fire  and  wriggled  his  way  through 
the  feet  of  the  crowd  to  the  other  side  of  the  platform. 
Here  he  took  refuge  among  a  group  of  sepoys  who  had 
made  a  barricade  of  their  bedding.  Behind  it  they 
squatted,  chatting  and  smoking,  while  they  waited  for 
some  other  train,  apparently  incurious  and  indifferent 
as  to  the  meaning  of  the  excitement  in  the  station. 
Banarsi  Das  cowered  behind  the  barrier  of  kit  they  had 
raised,  expecting  to  see  the  face  of  the  Shinwari  emerge 
above  it  and  his  long  arm  stretched  out  to  grip  his 
throat.  The  tribesman  had  intended  him  to  die; 
he  was  angry  that  he  had  escaped.  Banarsi  Das  looked 
at  the  sepoys  and  wondered  if  they  would  protect  him. 
They  had  rifles  and  the  Shinwari  was  unarmed.  He 
thought  of  appealing  to  them,  but  the  instinct  of  the 


THE   PARIAH  OF  FORTUNE  157 

hunted  warned  him  to  conceal  himself,  to  lie  still  and 
inconspicuous  like  one  of  the  rolls  of  bedding.  The 
sepoys,  a  draft  of  Dogras,  were  not  interested  in  Banarsi 
Das.  The  one  nearest  him  was  gazing  at  himself 
contentedly  in  a  hand-mirror,  adjusting  a  fold  of  his 
turban,  correcting  an  irregularity  in  his  moustache. 
Another  was  reading  the  Fauji  Akhbar,  others  were 
playing  cards.  For  all  the  interest  they  took  in  him  he 
might  have  been  a  station  sparrow  searching  for  crumbs. 
From  where  he  lay  curled  up  at  the  foot  of  the  pile 
of  sepoys'  kit  he  could  see  the  Khilafat  banners  tilt  and 
bob  above  the  heads  of  the  crowd.  They  neither 
approached  nor  receded.  He  listened  for  the  cry  of 
pursuit.  The  index  finger  of  the  Shinwari  had  been 
pointed  at  him,  it  was  a  scornful  and  princely  gesture ; 
and  he  had  been  denounced  in  the  ear  of  the  champion 
of  Islam  who  had  boasted  that  he  could  overthrow 
alien  Governments,  and  make  or  unmake  Viceroys 
and  Secretaries  of  State.  Was  it  possible  that  he, 
Bcinarsi  Das,  was  minute  and  inconspicuous  enough 
to  escape?  He  curled  himself  up  more  tightly, 
embracing  his  knees,  and  buried  his  head  in  its  little 
round  felt  cap  under  a  fold  of  loose  blanket.  The 
sepoy  with  the  hand-mirror  had  ceased  his  meticulous 
toilet  and  was  regarding  him  impassively;  he  would 
not  have  denied  the  same  shelter  to  the  station  dog. 
No  cry  of  the  pack  reached  the  fugitive.  No  individual 
voice  was  distinguishable  above  the  din.  The  hubbub 
was  only  punctuated  by  the  shriek  of  engines  and  the 
shunting  of  heavy  goods  trucks.  The  train  by  which 
the  Ali  brothers  travelled  was  timed  to  stop  at  Gopal- 
pura  twenty  minutes,  but  it  seemed  hours  before  the 
engine  whistled  and  the  platform  shook  again.  Banarsi 
Das  watched  the  oscillating  pennons  from  under  his 
blanket ;  he  had  come  to  hate  the  star  and  the  crescent. 


158  ABDICATION 

It  was  not  until  at  least  half  an  hour  after  the  hostile 
crowd  had  disgorged  itself  and  the  Khilafat  volunteers 
had  re-formed  and  marched  away  that  he  dared  to 
emerge  from  his  bolt-hole  and  make  tracks  for  the 
security  of  Thompsonpur  and  the  Gazette.  The  laconic 
brevity  of  his  report  puzzled  Riley,  who  for  the  first 
time  observed  in  Banarsi  Das'  English  evidence  of 
literary  restraint. 

For  the  first  month  or  two  after  his  acceptance  by 
Riley,  Banarsi  Das  found  happiness  and  relief.  Ambi- 
tion revived  in  him.  He  felt  safe  and  established  on 
the  Gazette,  and  he  looked  forward  to  the  days  when  he 
would  edit  his  own  journal.  It  would  be  a  nationalist 
organ,  of  course,  but  strictly  Moderate  in  tone.  Riley's 
sympathy  with  nationahsm  was  appreciated  in  the 
Moderate  camp,  and  Banarsi  Das  could  not  understand 
why  his  connection  with  him  should  make  him  so 
unpopular.  For  he  attributed  the  sour  looks  he  re- 
ceived from  his  old  associates  to  his  employment  on 
the  Gazette. 

After  his  return  from  the  frontier  he  was  seldom 
seen  in  Gopalpura ;  he  had  no  communing  with  the 
Khilafat  party,  and  he  avoided  the  neighbourhood  of 
Amir  Khan's  mosque.  He  kept  away  at  first  from 
the  politicaUy-minded  among  his  Gopalpura  friends 
because  it  was  difficult  to  explain  his  reappearance 
among  them  so  soon  after  the  part  he  had  played  in 
the  Hijrat.  It  seemed  to  betray  a  lack  of  spirit  in  him 
that  he  should  be  the  first  of  the  muhajarin  to  come 
back.  Appearances  always  conspired  against  Banarsi 
Das.  Yet  he  could  say  quite  truthfully,  when  cornered 
and  catechised,  that  his  rejection  by  the  muhajarin 
had  been  due,  not  to  any  faltering  of  the  spirit,  but 
to  weakness  of  the  flesh.  He  had  been  very  unjustly 
treated.    Jemal  Khan,  he  explained,  was  angry  with 


THE  PARIAH  OF  FORTUNE  159 

him  because  he  was  exhausted  and  could  not  keep  up ; 
his  feet  were  bUstered,  and  he  was  suffering  from  fever 
and  in  great  pain.  For  this  reason  Jemal  Khan  had 
abused  him  and  denounced  him  to  the  Bulbul-i- 
Sehwan,  who  had  sent  him  back.  Banarsi  Das  did 
not  say  how  he  had  been  sent  back.  He  only  hinted 
that  this  ill-treatment  had  estranged  him  from  his 
fellow-conspirators.  He  was  no  longer  in  sympathy 
with  the  Khilafat  agitators.  He  had  made  a  great 
sacrifice  for  his  brother  Muhammadans,  because  they 
were  his  fellow-countrymen  and  suffering  imder  the 
same  unjust  foreign  Government.  In  return  he  had 
been  shamefully  used  by  them.  He  had  no  doubt  that 
Jemal  Khan  was  his  enemy,  because  he  was  a  Hindu. 
It  was  true  that  he  was  a  Hindu,  and  Hindus  had  no 
concern  with  the  Khilafat  or  Hijrat.  It  was  not  their 
affair.     He  had  acted  blindly  through  excess  of  zeal. 

This  was  convenient  heresy.  Banarsi  Das  could  not 
expect  and  did  not  wish  to  be  taken  back  into  favour 
by  the  Gopalpura  Extremists.  But  he  was  a  staunch 
nationalist  all  the  same,  though  on  the  Moderate  side. 
The  Moderates  ought  to  respect  him,  yet  his  treatment 
by  them  amounted  to  something  like  boycott.  What 
had  he  done  ?  he  asked  himself.  Banarsi  Das  was  not 
in  the  habit  of  introspection.  The  kaleidoscopic 
pictures  thrown  on  that  sensitive  film- work  at  the  back 
of  his  brain  which  did  duty  for  a  conscience  were  his 
only  spiritual  education.  In  one  of  them  Jemal  Khan 
figured  in  the  posture  of  Judas  or  Yezid,  in  the  act  of 
betrayal ;  in  another  the  Shinwari  appeared  as  a  dacoit 
sHtting  Banarsi  Das'  purse  with  a  knife  which  at  any 
moment  might  be  turned  to  his  throat ;  in  a  third  as 
an  assassin  pinioning  him  to  the  raft.  And  the  Bulbul 
was  the  instigator  of  persecution.  The  recurrence  of 
these  pictures  absolved  Banarsi  Das  of  all  obligation. 


160  ABDICATION 

This  is  how  it  appeared  to  him  in  the  early  days 
after  his  return.  Through  his  misfortunes  he  had  found 
himself.  He  was  entrenched  in  an  unassailable  posi- 
tion, though  he  did  not  like  to  dwell  on  the  incidents 
that  had  led  him  to  it.  He  wondered  how  much  of 
his  story  was  known.  The  humiliating  details  would 
reach  Gopalpura  through  the  police.  Anyhow,  the 
Bulbul  would  tell  the  muhajarin,  and  the  story  would 
become  common  property  when  he  returned. 
,  For  a  month  or  two  Banarsi  Das  continued  in  happy 
ignorance  of  the  things  that  were  being  said  about  him. 
He  had  been  troubled  by  certain  misgivings  at  first. 
He  was  uneasy  when  he  remembered  the  conversation 
between  the  Bulbul  and  the  Shinwari  in  the  tomb,  but 
he  had  never  understood  its  significance.  As  to  the 
charge  of  complicity  in  the  arrest  of  Nazir  UUah  Shah, 
he  had  never  heard  the  man's  name  before  or  since, 
or  given  it  a  thought.  The  muhajarin  could  not 
suspect  him  of  betraying  them.  They  had  told  him 
no  secrets,  so  there  was  nothing  to  betray.  He 
recalled  the  words  of  the  Bulbul  on  the  banks  of  the 
Indus  :  "  What  does  he  know  ?  Send  him  back  to  the 
Kafirs,  he  can  betray  nothing  that  is  not  already 
known." 

He  thought  the  Bulbul  had  been  angry  with  him 
because  Jemal  Khan  had  called  him  names  and  de- 
nounced him  for  his  lack  of  zeal.  The  Bulbul  did  not 
understand  why  he,  a  Hindu,  should  be  of  the  party, 
and  suspected  treachery.  Jemal  Khan  ought  to  have 
explained.  If  the  Bulbul  had  any  doubts  as  to  his 
loyalty,  surely  Jemal  Khan  would  clear  them  away. 
All  the  muhajarin  knew  why  he  had  joined  the  Hijrat. 
And  there  was  the  evidence  of  Abdul  Rabi.  Banarsi 
Das  had  told  the  Bulbul  about  his  passport.  Jemal 
Khan  had  the  Koran  in  which  the  moulvi  of  Amir 


THE  PARIAH  OF  FORTUNE  16l 

Khan's  mosque  had  written  that  he  was  to  be  trusted 
on  the  page  that  tallied  with  the  ninety-ninth  name  of 
God.  Surely  when  the  Bulbul  joined  the  muhajarin 
at  Asmas  he  would  consult  Jemal  Khan  and  discover 
his  mistake. 

Thus  Banarsi  Das  wove  a  web  of  illusion  into  which 
he  retreated  when  assailed  by  doubts.  He  was  inno- 
cent, and  there  was  nothing  against  him ;  therefore  all 
unjust  suspicions,  having  nothing  to  sustain  them, 
must  die  a  natural  death.  He  persisted  in  believing 
that  his  unpopularity  was  due  to  his  employment  on 
the  Gazette.  Abdul  Rabi,  however,  and  Barkatullah 
and  others  read  his  conduct  in  a  different  light.  On 
the  face  of  it  Banarsi  Das'  story  was  improbable ;  who 
would  believe  that  he  had  been  stripped  and  pinioned 
and  committed  to  the  Indus  to  float  or  drown,  simply 
because  he  had  lagged  behind  on  the  road?  The 
Bulbul-i-Sehwan  was  a  pious  man,  and  just  if  severe. 
He  kept  a  rigid  account  of  his  soul  with  God.  The 
sentence  which  he  passed  on  Banarsi  Das  could  only 
mean  one  thing,  that  the  Hindu  was  a  Government 
man  and  had  insinuated  himself  into  the  company  of 
the  mtihajarin  as  an  informer.  This  is  how  it  appeared 
to  Gopalpura.  Then  it  became  known  that  Banarsi 
Das  had  been  seen  with  the  police  at  Abbottabad ;  he 
was  favoured  by  Englishmen;  and  soon  after  his 
reappearance  certain  agents  of  the  Hindustani  fanatics 
in  Lahore,  Delhi  and  Panipat,  who  had  carried  on  their 
traffic  as  intermediaries  for  years  without  hindrance, 
were  arrested. 

After  this  encounter  with  Jemal  Khan,  Banarsi  Das' 
uneasiness  increased.  Why  had  Jemal  Khan  called 
him  "  Yezid  "  ?  It  was  the  word  the  Bulbul  had  used 
in  speaking  of  him  to  the  Shinwari  at  Jahar.  The  scorn 
and  hatred  in   the  Shinwari's  eye    at    the  railway 

M 


162  ABDICATION 

station  repeated  the  judgment.  Banarsi  Das  had  no 
luck.  He  was  innocent  of  double-deaHng.  He  had 
betrayed  nobody.  He  refused  to  give  the  name  of 
one  of  his  confederates  when  confronted  with  the 
poHce,  he  would  have  endured  torture  rather  than  betray 
them.  Yet  the  men  for  whose  cause  he  had  suffered, 
and  who  should  have  respected  his  patriotism,  looked 
at  him  as  if  he  had  a  brand  on  his  forehead.  He 
became  more  and  more  aware  of  the  displeasure  of 
God.  "  Allah  hates  me,"  he  would  repeat  in  moments 
of  despondency.  He  discovered  that  he  was  a  pariah 
of  fortune.  The  inspired  phrase  occurred  to  him  when 
interviewing  his  old  Principal.  The  day  after  the 
ovation  to  the  Ali  brothers,  Riley,  who  never  lost  a 
chance  of  throwing  Banarsi  Das  in  the  way  of  Skene, 
sent  him  to  the  ofhce  of  the  Director  of  Public  Instruc- 
tion to  collect  details  of  the  new  scheme  of  University 
lectures.  Skene  greeted  his  prot^g^  in  his  old  familiar 
bantering  way. 

"  Well,  Banarsi  Das  !  How's  the  world  been  treating 
you?    Are  you  still  a  rebel?  *' 

Banarsi  Das  regarded  the  Director  of  Public  Instruc- 
tion with  doleful  affection.  "  Sir,"  he  said,  drawing 
academic  inspiration  from  memories  of  the  class-room, 
"  formerly  I  was  under  displeasure  of  benign  Govern- 
ment ;  subsequently  it  is  the  nationalists  who  look  upon 
me  with  the  black  eye." 

"  I  shouldn't  bother  about  the  black  eye,"  Skene  said 
cheerfully.  ''  Stick  to  Mr.  Riley.  There  is  nothing 
anti-nationalist  about  the  Gazette.  And  don't  worry 
your  head  about  what  the  Extremists  say." 

"  Sir,  they  will  do  me  some  injury." 

*'  Why  should  they  injure  you  ?  " 

**  I  am  surrounded  with  enemies." 

"  All  honest  men  have  enemies,  Banarsi  Das." 


THE   PARIAH  OF  FORTUNE  163 

Banarsi  Das  agreed  mournfully  with  this  truism. 
He  quoted  a  Persian  proverb  to  the  effect  that  honesty 
not  only  begets  enemies  but  endues  them  with  arms. 

When  he  got  back  to  his  room  in  the  Gazette  he  found 
new  proof  of  this  adage.  There  was  an  envelope  on 
his  table  addressed  in  the  Roman  capitals  affected  by 
the  anonymous  scribe  : 

LALA  YEZID  BANARSI  DAS, 
C/o  MR.  RILLIE,  Esq.,  B.A.  Oxon., 
THOMPSPUR  GAZETTE. 

Banarsi  Das  regarded  the  letter  with  misgivings. 
How  could  one  be  a  Lala  and  a  Yezid  at  the  same 
time?  The  "Yezid"  pointed  to  Jemal  Khan  or  an 
accomplice,  the  Roman  capitals  to  an  assailant  who 
struck  in  the  dark.  Banarsi  Das  opened  the  letter  and 
looked  at  the  signature.  The  second  inference  at  least 
was  correct. 

"  Remember  Gosain  who  turned  King's  evidence 
and  was  shot  in  gaol.  He  is  dead.  His  name 
is  execrated.  The  hero,  Kanhya  Lai,  who  shot 
him  is  also  dead.  His  name  lives  in  Glory.  He 
knew  the  intention  of  God  and  became  his  instru- 
ment. His  funeral  was  carried  to  the  burning 
Ghat  amidst  a  nation's  mourning.  Women  fasted 
on  the  day  of  his  cremation,  and  his  ashes  were 
collected  by  the  people  and  kept  in  silver  and  gold 
vessels.  Repent,  leave  the  service  of  the  hated 
Mllecchas.  Do  the  work  of  Bharat  Mata.  Your 
end  is  not  far  off.  If  you  heed  not  these  words 
your  infamy  will  be  that  of  Gosain. 

"  One  who  may  be  your 

"  Kanhya  Lal.'* 


164  ABDICATION 


II 

Amba  Pershad  had  left  his  quarters  over  the  fruit 
market  by  the  Mori  Gate.  He  was  now  estabhshed  in 
a  small  bungalow  behind  the  church  in  Thompsonpur. 
You  might  recognise  it  by  the  bright  stripes  of  gamboge 
and  terra-cotta,  newly  painted  on  the  gate  and  on  the 
trellis-work  of  the  verandah. 

Behind  this  riot  of  colour,  on  walls  hitherto  modestly 
distempered,  other  pigments  contended  in  brightness, 
buttercup  yellow  and  azure  blue.  The  same  principle 
of  decoration  might  be  observed  in  the  garden,  where 
alternate  layers  of  blue,  green  and  black  glass,  frag- 
ments of  broken  bottles,  variegated  the  borders  of  the 
flower-beds  in  geometrical  designs.  The  flowers  grow- 
ing in  them,  a  profusion  of  marigolds,  hollyhocks  and 
nasturtiums  jostling  with  tomatoes  and  leeks,  indicated, 
what  one  might  expect  in  the  inmate  of  the  bungalow, 
an  aestheticism  tempered  with  utility. 

This  migration  to  Thompsonpur  did  not  imply,  as  in 
Banarsi  Das'  case,  any  translation  in  spirit.  On  the 
contrary,  for  the  last  six  months  at  least,  the  current 
of  Amba  Pershad's  spiritual  sympathies  had  been 
travelling  rapidly  the  other  way.  His  orientation,  to 
use  a  word  of  which  he  was  fond,  swung  him  appro- 
priately towards  the  East.  His  angle  of  vision,  to 
employ  another  favourite  phrase,  had  suffered  a  change. 
Amba  Pershad  was  now  a  champion  of  the  popular 
cause.  He  declaimed  against  things  British  and 
anathematised  the  unspiritual  West  from  the  housetops 
even  as  Tartarin  cursed  the  East  from  his  minaret  in 
Algiers. 

He  had  resigned  his  appointment  in  Government 
service,  as  Skene  believed  out  of  pique  on  account  of 


THE  PARIAH  OF  FORTUNE  165 

the  bureaucracy's  rejection  of  his  text-book  on  Civics. 
Skene  had  an  idea  that  he  had  converted  a  loyaHst 
into  an  enemy  of  Government  by  his  firm  attitude  in 
turning  down  this  primer  on  Empire-Patriotism  which 
Amba  Pershad  had  written,  as  a  model  of  instruction 
for  youth.  Amba  Pershad  was  clever  enough  to 
encourage  the  inference.  It  suited  his  book  to  let  it 
appear  that  he  had  resigned  Government  service  in  a 
fit  of  pique.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he  was  growing  mys- 
teriously rich,  inconveniently  so,  for  a  man  in  his 
subordinate  position.  His  peculiar  cross  at  the 
moment  was  that  he  could  at  last  afford  a  motor-car, 
but  that  as  he  was  only  drawing  a  salary  of  two  hundred 
rupees  a  month  he  could  not  afford  to  be  seen  in  it. 

Amba  Pershad  was  making  a  name  as  a  lecturer  and 
publicist.  He  steered  an  extraordinarily  astute  course. 
He  wrote  books  and  pamphlets,  no  longer  anonymously, 
anathematising  Government.  His  series  of  articles  in 
The  Gopalpura  Standard  on  "  The  Punjab  Atrocities  " 
was  particularly  damning.  Yet  he  managed  to  leave 
an  impression  that  under  altered  conditions  the 
bureaucracy  might  discover  in  him  a  potential  friend. 
In  the  meanwhile  he  had  become  so  far  committed  to 
the  Extremists  that  any  recognition  of  him  by  Govern- 
ment, inclusion  as  a  Minister,  for  example,  in  the 
machinery  of  the  new  administration  would  be  accepted 
as  a  concession  to  the  popular  cause.  He  had  wit 
enough  to  see  that  there  was  little  prospect  of  advance- 
ment in  the  career  of  a  Moderate,  for  it  was  evident  that 
Government  were  out  to  placate  their  enemies  at  the 
expense  of  their  friends. 

Banarsi  Das,  though  he  had  met  Amba  Pershad  once 
or  twice,  had  had  no  private  talk  with  him  since  the 
day  he  sought  his  advice  about  joining  the  Gazette 
and  was  routed  by  his  gramophone  and  his  cynicism. 


166  ABDICATION 

He  knew  that  he  had  nothing  to  fear  from  Amba 
Pershad  as  a  poHtical  enemy.  The  Brahmin  could  be 
virulent  on  paper,  but  he  was  mild  and  tolerant  in  his 
social  relations.  People  who  only  knew  of  him  politic- 
ally were  surprised,  when  they  met  him,  at  his  complete 
lack  of  fanaticism.  Banarsi  Das  knew  that  it  would 
not  matter  to  Amba  Pershad  if  he  had  joined  the 
Gazette  or  were  still  on  The  Roshni,  whether  he  had  gone 
to  Kabul  with  the  muhajarin  or  had  come  back  by  the 
first  train.  In  Amba  Pershad's  sanctum  at  least  he 
was  safe  from  the  recoil  of  outraged  principles.  He 
had  avoided  it  since  he  had  taken  service  under  Riley. 
There  was  an  undercurrent  of  irony  in  Amba  Pershad 
of  which  he  was  always  vaguely  conscious  and  which 
made  him  feel  uncomfortable ;  he  was  never  quite  sure 
whether  his  friend  was  laughing  at  him.  Now,  eight 
months  after  his  last  visit,  it  occurred  to  him  to 
approach  the  Oracle  again,  more  with  the  idea  of  un- 
burdening his  soul  than  with  the  hope  of  any  practical 
help.  He  did  not  trust  Amba  Pershad  and  had  little 
confidence  in  his  sympathy,  but  he  had  a  great  idea  of 
his  worldly  wisdom,  and  he  knew  nobody  else  with 
whom  he  could  discuss  the  anonymous  letter. 

Amba  Pershad,  now  that  he  was  a  man  of  growing 
importance,  would  not  be  likely  to  seek  out  the  failed 
B.A.  and  rejected  muhajir  in  his  quarters  in  the 
Gazette.  Banarsi  Das  was  reminded  of  the  gulf  that 
had  widened  between  them,  when  he  turned  the  corner 
by  the  cathedral  and  saw  a  line  of  carriages  and  motors 
drawn  up  outside  his  friend's  bungalow.  The  two  gates 
had  been  converted  into  triumphal  arches  decorated 
with  evergreens  and  banners.  Over  one  flew  the 
national  flag;  over  the  other  the  Star  and  Crescent. 
Under  each  of  these  the  ambiguous  H.M.  emblazoned 
in  large  gold  letters  had  no  royal  significance,  as  the 


THE   PARIAH  OF  FORTUNE  167 

casual  observer  might  suppose;  it  merely  symbolised 
the  Hindu-Moslem  entente.  On  both  sides  of  the  drive 
from  the  road  to  the  porch  a  blaze  of  orange  and 
vermilion  pennons  suspended  on  gilt  wire  increased, 
if  that  were  possible,  the  normal  sense  of  giddiness 
that  was  communicated  by  a  glance  at  the  fa9ade  of 
Amba  Pershad's  bungalow  through  the  brightly  painted 
gates  as  one  passed  by. 

Banarsi  Das  had  chosen  an  unfortunate  hour  for 
his  visit.  He  ought  to  have  remembered,  a  fact  that 
was  known  to  all  Gopalpura  and  half  Thompsonpur, 
that  it  was  the  afternoon  on  which  Amba  Pershad 
was  entertaining  Sir  Antony  Greening,  a  globe-trotting 
Labour  M.P.,  who  was  making  a  cold- weather  tour 
of  India  "  to  study  the  conditions  of  the  problem  at 
first  hand."  He  found  himself  standing  at  the  entrance 
to  the  drive  with  a  small  group  of  loiterers,  arrested 
for  a  moment  by  all  this  colour  and  magnificence. 
What  brought  home  to  him  more  than  anything  else 
the  distance  between  himself  and  the  man  who  had 
attracted  the  crowd  was  the  contemptuous  stare  of  the 
two  policemen,  who  nonchalantly  directed  the  traffic 
in  the  road,  it  included  him  with  these  other  loiterers. 
With  them  he  watched  Barkatullah  drive  up  in  a  tonga, 
looking  very  important,  and  Rai  Bahadur  Muni  Ram, 
Chairman  of  the  Municipality,  all  becks  and  smiles. 
The  irreconcilable,  as  well  as  the  half-reconciled,  ^lite 
of  Gopalpura  were  among  the  guests  of  Amba  Pershad. 
A  Sadhu,  a  splendid  anachronism  in  his  saffron  robes, 
with  his  staff  and  begging  bowl  and  necklace  of  coral 
beads,  arrived  in  a  motor-car.  The  frock-coated 
figure  in  the  car  behind,  who  looked  like  a  habit u6 
of  Bond  Street,  was  recognised  by  Banarsi  Das  as  Mirza 
Tajumal  Hussein,  the  doyen  of  the  Thompsonpur 
bar.     Behind   him   a   Nawab's   son   in   an   old-worlc} 


168  ABDICATION 

yellow  chariot,  drawn  by  two  trotting  camels  caparisoned 
in  red,  blocked  the  traffic.  The  carriage  was  too  enor- 
mous to  pass  through  the  gate,  and  the  scion  of  the 
nobility,  a  shrunken,  apathetic  little  figure  in  an  incon- 
spicuous choga,  had  to  alight  and  walk  up  the  drive, 
followed  by  an  orderly  in  uniform  with  facings  only 
less  dazzling  than  the  processional  pennons  and  the 
painted  gate.  Banarsi  Das  did  not  wait  to  see  what 
other  guests  were  bidden  to  the  feast,  but  drifted 
aimlessly  back  the  way  he  had  come,  past  the  cathedral 
to  the  offices  of  the  Gazette,  wondering  if  he  would 
have  the  courage  to  return  when  the  gathering  had 
dispersed,  and  feeling  more  lonely  than  he  had  ever 
felt  in  his  life. 

Ill 

The  man  whose  excessive  sympathy  with  the  under- 
dog finds  vent  in  baiting  his  fellow-countrymen  who 
are  administering  a  subject  race  often  has  a  good  heart, 
but  he  is  not  as  a  rule  overburdened  with  a  sense  of 
humour.  Sir  Antony  Greening  was  quite  aware  that 
Anglo-India  would  fail  to  discover  in  him  the  salt 
that  savours  the  dish  of  life.  They  would  dub  him 
at  best  a  biassed  crank,  if  not  a  dishonest  one,  and 
carelessly  accept  the  fact  that  they  were  prejudged. 
"A  Labourite,  what  can  you  expect?  "  And  in  the 
presumption  of  the  homy  hand  and  the  homier  manner, 
and  the  intelHgence  encased  in  a  like  integument, 
there  would  be  no  disturbing  consciousness  of  the  pre- 
judging and  unanalytical  mind.  "  They  naturally 
class  me,"  Sir  Antony  reflected,  '*  with  the  type  of 
itinerant  M.P.  who,  after  three  weeks  at  Calcutta,  or 
Bombay,  and  a  short  visit  to  Delhi,  is  reputed  to  say, 
'  Asia  has  unlocked  her  heart  to  me.  ...  To  me  the 
Muhammadan  mind  is  an  open  book.'  " 


THE  PARIAH  OF  FORTUNE  169 

It  was  a  pity  that  Banarsi  Das  could  not  unlock  his 
heart  to  Sir  Antony  Greening.  The  Labour  Member 
would  have  learnt  more  of  the  miscarriage  of  our  good 
intentions  from  his  simple  history  than  from  any 
of  the  poHtical  leaders  collected  in  Amba  Pershad's 
bungalow.  He  was  now  making  his  salaam  to  the 
Sadhu,  smihng  and  bowing  low,  his  folded  palms 
touching  his  forehead  as  in  the  obeisances  which  he 
had  observed  the  devout  paying  to  Mahatma  Gandhi. 
It  was  too  much  perhaps  to  expect  a  commensurate 
smile  from  the  spiritual  ascetic.  Sir  Antony  was 
uncomfortably  conscious  of  his  grey  flannel  coat  and 
trousers,  in  which  he  felt  the  more  depayse  as  he  was 
garlanded  like  a  sacrificial  bull.  The  garlands  hung 
so  thick  about  his  neck  that  when  he  caught  a  glimpse 
of  himself  in  one  of  Amba  Pershad's  mirrors  he  was 
reminded  of  a  groom  grinning  through  a  horse-collar. 
He  felt  that  he  was  rather  overdoing  the  part  of  the 
hon  camarade.  The  Sadhu  and  the  Nawab's  son  were 
singularly  expressionless.  But  Sir  Antony  was  spared 
the  embarrassment  of  making  conversation  by  the 
loud  comments  and  explanations  of  Barkatullah, 
who  stood  at  Amba  Pershad's  elbow  and  introduced 
one  guest  after  another  to  the  Member  of  ParUament. 
The  editor  of  The  Roshni,  whom  he  had  heard  described 
as  a  dangerous  demagogue,  seemed  for  the  moment 
to  have  chained  defiance;  Sir  Antony  felt  that  he 
would  have  preferred  it  to  the  emotional  substitute 
which  he  paraded.  Barkatullah,  who  persisted  in 
addressing  him  as  Sir  Greening,  called  out  the  names 
of  the  guests  consequentially,  as  if  he  had  summoned 
the  gathering,  while  Amba  Pershad,  the  host,  stood 
by,  secure  in  his  Brahminical  dignity,  too  well- 
bred  to  apologise  for  his  steward.  "  He  looks  as 
if  he  had  hired  H:he  ill-mannered  fellow  and  rather 


170  ABDICATION 

wished  that  he  hadn't,"  Sir  Antony  thought;  yet 
there  was  no  betrayal  of  annoyance  on  his  episcopal 
brow. 

Babu  Suresh  Chandra  Chatter]  i,  editor  of  The  Gopal- 
pura  Standard,  Barkatullah  announced,  and  Sir  Antony 
found  himself  shaking  hands  with  a  frail  little  Bengali. 
The  friends  and  admirers  of  the  Extremist  in  London 
had  told  him  to  make  sure  of  "  cornering  Chatter] i." 
The  elusive  significance  of  the  word  was  immediately 
]ustified,  for  before  Greening  could  pin  him  down  or 
make  any  appointment  with  him,  "  the  scourge  of  the 
bureaucracy,"  who  might  be  depended  on  to  give 
him  "  a  truer  estimate  of  the  political  situation  from 
the  Extremists'  point  of  view  than  anyone  in  India," 
had  slipped  away,  modestly  regarding  himself  as  one 
of  the  procession.  Chatter] i  was  a  lion  on  paper, 
and  as  honest  and  direct  as  Gandhi,  though  in  the 
flesh  fugitive,  shunning  society,  seldom  seen.  Sheikh 
Hassan  Nizami  was  of  a  more  sociable  type.  He  shook 
hands  with  Sir  Antony  like  a  boulevardier.  With 
his  spectacles  and  severely-cut  white  beard  he  looked 
like  a  Turk  of  the  old  school,  the  cosmopolitan  sort, 
whom  you  might  find  sitting  next  you  at  dinner  any 
night  at  Yanni's  or  Tokatlian's  in  Constantinople.  He 
probably  understood  the  Labour  Member  better  than 
anyone  in  the  room.  "  I  have  been  reading  your 
article  on  '  The  White  Man's  Burden,'  "  he  said,  "  in 
Nothing  but  the  Truth."  "  How  do  you  get  Nothing 
but  the  Truth?  "  Sir  Antony  asked  him;  "  I  thought 
it  was  confiscated  like  all  the  other  Labour  papers, 
excluded  by  the  censor."  "  Press  agencies,"  Nizami 
whispered  mysteriously.  An  understanding  was 
already  established  between  them  when  Rai  Bahadur 
Muni  Ram,  O.B.E.,  Chairman  of  the  Municipality, 
bore  down   on   Sir  Antony  with  benedictory  smiles 


THE  PARIAH  OF  FORTUNE  171 

and  explained  that  he  was  the  donor  of  the  statue  of 
Queen  Victoria  opposite  the  Mori  Gate. 

Then  Dina  Nath  was  presented,  a  precise  Kashmiri 
Pundit,  with  the  triple  caste  mark  of  Siva  on  his  fore- 
head and  a  perpetual  deprecating  smile.  Greening 
had  noticed  him  hovering  gracefully  in  the  middle 
distance  and  looking  like  an  illustration  in  one  of 
Shakespeare's  Venetian  plays.  He  wore  a  choga,  or 
toga  as  Greening  called  it,  and  carried  a  handsome 
enamelled  stick,  from  which  he  would  not  be  separated 
out  of  doors  or  in.  He  held  it  in  front  of  him  as  erect 
as  his  own  figure,  his  hand  resting  on  it  on  a  level 
with  his  waist.  The  support  he  seemed  to  derive  from 
the  staff  without  leaning  on  it  at  all  added  to  the 
detached,  appraising  look  the  Brahmin  had.  Pandit 
Dina  Nath  greeted  the  M.P.  with  gentle  courtesy,  and 
a  compliment  on  a  speech  he  had  made  at  Amritsar 
after  the  National  Congress.  He  had  doubted  if  he 
could  come  to  the  party,  he  said,  as  he  was  a  Brahmin 
and  could  not  eat  and  drink  with  others,  and  so  could 
not  profit  by  the  entertainment.  "  But  I  sometimes 
go  to  parties,"  he  added,  *'  for  the  sake  of  the 
society   I  can  enjoy  there." 

"  You  must  taste  my  mangoes.  Pundit  ji,"  Amba 
Pershad  said,  "  and  these  apricots,  they  are  fresh  from 
Kulu.  The  Kashmiris  are  very  orthodox,"  he 
explained  to  the  Member  of  Parliament. 

Barkatullah,  who  was  still  at  Sir  Greening's  elbow, 
remarked  that  caste  exclusiveness  would  soon  be 
extinct  in  the  New  Province.  "  It  was  djdng,"  he  said, 
"  not  to  say,  moribund,  when  Dyer  and  O'Dwyer 
united  all  classes.  Now  Hindu-Moslem  entente  will 
give  it  deserved  quietus." 

Amba  Pershad  smiled  philosophically,  "  You  will 
have  opportunity  to  observe.  Sir  Antony,"  he  said, 


172  ABDICATION 

"  as  you  continue  your  tour,  how  the  autocrats  of  this 
country  are  becoming  the  servants  of  democracy.  We 
owe  a  great  deal  to  our  Dyers  and  O'Dwyers." 

Greening  was  conscious  of  a  deUcacy  in  his  host's 
use  of  the  first  personal  pronoun.  He  would  have  felt 
even  more  uncomfortable  if  Amba  Pershad  had  said 
"  your  Dyers  and  your  O'Dwyers." 

"  Unity  is  observed  on  all  festivals  and  mournings," 
BarkatuUah  continued.  "  On  Ashra  Day  Hindus 
supplied  drinks  to  the  Muhammadans.  Every  evening 
you  may  see  Hindu  gentlemen  at  the  kahah  stalls  in 
Hari  Mandi.  They  make  it  a  point  to  go  there  and 
eat  Mussalman  kahah,  and  when  their  lips  are  burnt 
with  chillies  they  soothe  them  with  Mussalman  sherbet 
close  by." 

"  I  can  quite  understand,"  Sir  Antony  said,  "  that 
the  caste  system  stands  in  the  way  of  independence." 

But  to  the  Kashmiri  Brahmin  this  fraternisation 
which  BarkatuUah  described  so  glibly  was  distressing 
and  indelicate,  an  invasion  of  the  temple.  The  vulgar 
throng  threatened  the  immemorial  barriers.  It  was 
too  big  a  price  to  pay,  even  for  independence.  He 
edged  away  from  BarkatuUah,  as  from  something 
profane  and  unclean,  preceded  by  his  mace. 

The  editor  of  The  Roshni  retained  the  ear  of  the 
Member  of  Parliament.  His  harsh  voice  was  the 
loudest  in  the  room.  Others  could  not  compete. 
Amba  Pershad  could  hear  him  as  he  moved  among  his 
guests. 

"  Certainly  the  Government  is  oppressive.  Patriots 
are  persecuted  without  trial  owing  to  false  information 
given  to  officials  by  the  police  and  informers.  They 
do  not  mix  with  the  people  or  know  what  is  in  their 
minds." 

Here  Amba  Pershad  button-holed  Mirza  Tajumal 


THE  PARIAH  OF  FORTUNE  178 

Hussein,  the  doyen  of  the  Thompsonpur  bar,  and  asked 
him  to  sit  on  Sir  Antony's  left  at  tea.  He  glanced 
significantly  at  Barkatullah  as  he  made  the  request, 
and  Tajumal  Hussein  understood  what  was  in  his  mind. 
"  This  thrusting  fellow  will  never  do.  A  man  of  the 
people,  self-assertive,  intrusive — Sir  Antony  will  carry 
away  wrong  impressions . ' '  Taj  umal  Hussein  was  agree- 
ably conscious  that  in  manner,  appearance,  breeding, 
knowledge  of  the  world  he  could  offer  the  exact  cor- 
rective of  Barkatullah  that  his  host  desired. 

Everybody  in  the  room  was  now  aware  that  Barka- 
tullah was  talking  about  Riley  and  The  Thompsonpur 
Gazette.  The  name  of  the  Anglo-Indian  editor  and 
his  journal  echoed  harshly,  punctuating  other  talk. 
"  Mr.  Riley  has  charged  me  with  instigating  the 
Mograon  cultivators  against  Government.  It  is  G.I.D. 
story  invented  to  please  officials  that  they  may  oppress 
patriots.  Government  tricked  and  deceived  zemindars ; 
consequently  there  was  riot.  It  is  false  and  base 
allegation  that  Mr.  Riley  brings  against  me  in  Thomp- 
sonpur Gazette.  No  doubt  he  will  be  made  to  apologise 
and  eat  his  nasty  words."  Barkatullah  had  been 
boasting  that  he  was  going  to  bring  an  action  against 
Riley,  but  everybody  knew  that  when  it  came  to  the 
point  he  would  be  afraid  to  stir  up  the  mud. 

"  Will  he  prosecute  ?  "  Amba  Pershad  asked  Tajumal 
Hussein. 

Tajumal  Hussein  shook  his  head.  "  I  would  not 
touch  the  case,"  he  said. 

Barkatullah  continued  to  dominate  the  conversation. 
His  tone  was  alternately  aggressive  and  ingratiating. 
He  had  apparently  passed  from  the  personal  to  the 
Imperial  theme,  for  he  was  saying,  "  In  1907  it  meant 
imprisonment  to  talk  of  freedom.  To-day  the  men 
are  the  same  and  the  laws  are  the  same,  but  the  spirit 


174  ABDICATION 

is  no  longer  the  same.  Indians  not  only  claim  Swaraj, 
but  they  claim  that  they  will  have  it  outside  the  British 
Empire." 

The  editor  of  The  Roshni  was  becoming  an  embar- 
rassment. Sir  Antony  Greening  looked  cornered  and 
tired.  Amba  Pershad,  with  the  Brahmin's  subtle 
reading  of  character  and  temperament,  divined  the 
best  approaches  to  the  Englishman.  He  had  detected 
a  genial  strain  in  Sir  Antony  which  was  being  starved. 
The  plebeian  was  queering  his  pitch.  He  touched 
Tajumal  Hussein  on  the  elbow.  "  Come,"  he  said, 
"  it  will  not  do  for  Barkatullah  to  monopolise  our 
distinguished  visitor."  He  led  the  hamster  up  to  Sir 
Antony  and  tactfully  interposed. 

"  You  are  discussing  the  Empire,"  he  said.  "  Do 
you  know.  Sir  Antony,  why  it  is  the  sun  never  sets 
on  the  British  Empire?  " 

Sir  Antony  welcomed  his  host  with  a  smile  of  relief. 
*'  I  give  it  up,"  he  said,  "  is  it  a  conundrum  ?  " 

"  The  sun  never  sets  on  the  British  Empire  because 
the  Almighty,  in  His  infinite  wisdom,  knows  better 
than  to  leave  any  corner  of  it  long  in  the  dark." 

"  Capital !  "  Sir  Antony  exclaimed,  "  capital !  "  He 
had  heard  a  French  variant  of  the  gibe,  but  Amba 
Pershad  brought  it  out  so  neatly,  with  such  a  delicate 
play  of  irony,  without  a  gesture  and  with  barely  a 
twinkle  in  his  eye. 

"  Splendid  feUow  !  "  Greening  thought.  "  What 
charming  manners !  and  what  a  head !  Like  a 
cardinal's.  In  spite  of  being  rough-ridden  by  these 
bureaucrats  he  keeps  his  sense  of  humour. ' '  And  catch- 
ing Amba  Pershad's  eye  he  knew  that  his  deliverance 
from  Barkatullah  had  been  deliberate. 

Amba  Pershad  ushered  his  guests  to  the  table. 
Sir  Antony  sat  on  his  right,  and  Tajumal  Hussein  on 


THE  PARIAH  OF  FORTUNE  175 

Sir  Antony's  left.  BarkatuUah,  thwarted,  made  his 
way  to  the  other  side  of  the  table,  and  took  the  seat 
opposite  "  Sir  Greening,"  the  next  best  position  for 
advance  or  attack.  On  one  side  of  him  he  had  the 
Sadhu  and  on  the  other  the  Nawab's  son.  As  these 
were  the  least  articulate  of  the  company  and  unlikely 
to  detract  from  the  attention  that  he  intended  should 
be  centred  on  himself,  he  felt  that  his  dispositions 
were  in  some  measure  retrieved. 

Sir  Antony  turned  to  Tajumal  Hussein.  "  I  am 
trying  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  our  loss  of  prestige," 
he  said.  "  I  can  perfectly  understand  the  feelings 
of  the  political  classes.  You  know  my  sentiments 
in  that  direction.  What  I  don't  understand  is  the 
attitude  of  the  masses.  They  seem  to  have  lost  faith 
in  British  justice.  What  is  wrong  with  the  administra- 
tion ?  BarkatuUah  was  telling  me  that  he  is  the  victim 
of  a  false  charge  trumped  up  against  him  by  the  police. 
He  might  have  bought  himself  off,  he  said,  but  as  a 
matter  of  principle  he  refrained." 

Tajumal  Hussein  looked  quizzically  at  BarkatuUah 
across  the  table.  "  Certainly,"  he  said,  "  the  police 
are  very  corrupt." 

"  I  hear  the  same  story  everywhere,"  the  Member 
of  Parliament  continued.  "  It  seems  that  the  bitter- 
ness against  Government  in  the  case  of  the  masses 
is  largely  due  to  the  petty  actions  of  the  police,  and 
in  the  case  of  the  educated  classes  to  the  espionage 
of  the  G.I.D." 

"  There  is  a  certain  amount  of  truth  in  that,"  Tajumal 
Hussein  admitted.  "  But  it  is  not  only  the  police, 
it  is  the  same  with  subordinates  in  every  department, 
canals,  revenue,  public  works.  Even  in  hospitals, 
where  treatment  is  free,  the  patient  doesn't  get  his 
medicine  until  he  has  oiled  the  palm  of  some  menial." 


176  ABDICATION 

"  Then,  if  this  horde  of  corrupt  subordinates  is  at 
the  bottom  of  the  trouble,  the  sentiment  is  not  so  much 
anti-British  or  anti-European  as  anti-Government. 
After  all,  if  the  peasant  is  mulcted  and  buUied,  it  is 
by  his  own  people." 

"  That  is  true,  but  it  is  a  British  Government,  and 
therefore  the  sentiment  is  anti-British.  Everything 
is  charged  to  the  Sircar." 

"  But  before  the  British  came,  weren't  things  as 
bad?  The  peasant  was  bled  white  in  the  time  of 
Aurangzeb,  I  gather." 

"  The  best  apology  for  British  rule  will  be  found 
in  the  Memoirs  and  State  Papers  of  the  period  preceding 
it.  Unfortunately  the  zemindar  doesn't  read  them 
and  he  has  forgotten  what  his  grandfathers  had  to 
tell  him." 

"  You  admit  improvement?  " 

*'  Of  course,  under  British  rule,  the  lot  of  the  zemin- 
dar has  improved.  But  he  is  not  as  contented  as  he 
was.  In  the  old  days  the  Deputy  Commissioner  had 
time  to  look  into  things  more  and  control  his  subordi- 
nates. But  now  he  has  too  much  to  do.  He  is  busy 
and  overworked,  snowed  up  in  files  and  reports.  Yours 
has  become  a  paper  Government,  Sir  Antony,  out  of 
touch  with  the  life  of  the  people." 

"  Very  short-sighted  of  Government,"  Sir  Antony 
remarked,  "  and  in  a  way  they  are  responsible  for  the 
corruption  which  you  say  is  prevalent  everywhere. 
They  ought  to  double  the  pay  of  the  subordinate 
grades  of  the  services.  This  would  attract  a  class 
of  man  to  the  police  who  would  not  be  tempted  to 
eke  out  a  living  by  bribery  and  false  evidence." 

Tajumal  Hussein  smiled.  "No,"  he  said;  "I 
don't  think  that  would  answer.  In  the  first  place  it 
would  double  the  burden  of  taxation;   then  indirectly 


THE  PARIAH  OF  FORTUNE  177 

it  would  mean  that  the  classes  who  are  being  fleeced 
would  have  to  pay  twice  as  much  as  they  did  before. 
You  see,  the  bribe  the  subordinate  demands  is  in  exact 
proportion  to  his  official  position,  which  is  determined 
by  his  pay.     It  is  the  same  in  Russia,  I  believe." 

Sir  Antony  recalled  a  story — it  was  in  Tchehovy. 
he  beheved — of  an  Inspector-General  who  was  morally 
indignant  with  an  underling  for  presuming  to  accept 
a  bribe  "  quite  out  of  proportion  to  his  grade  in  the 
Department."  "  I  am  afraid  you  will  find  the  same 
sort  of  thing  in  other  countries  besides  Russia,"  he  added 
with  an  instinct  to  mitigate  invidious  inferences  by 
making  the  specific  appear  general. 

Tajumal  Hussein,  however,  had  no  illusions  on  this 
point.  "  Every  country  has  the  administration  it 
deserves,"  he  said.  "  If  the  people  did  not  offer  bribes, 
or  submit  to  blackmail,  they  would  not  have  a  corrupt 
police." 

"  Ah,  you  are  asking  too  much  of  human  nature," 
Sir  Antony  said.  "  The  appeasement  of  authority 
is  a  primitive  instinct  that  is  almost  universal.  But 
in  this  country,  what  particular  remedy  would  you 
prescribe?  " 

"  Contact,  super veillance.  I  would  double  the 
administrative  staff,  at  least  one  Deputy  Commissioner 
for  every  two  tehsils." 

"Not  Englishmen?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  Englishmen,  of  course  !  '* 

Sir  Antony  gasped.  "  More  Englishmen  !  My  God, 
what  a  coil !  I  thought  the  salvation  of  the  country 
depended  on  our  quitting  it." 

"  That  is  your  own  prescription.  Sir  Antony." 

"  Yes,  yes.  We  have  done  it  with  our  eyes  open. 
We  have  been  perfectly  honest  about  it.  We  might 
have  put  the  hands  of  the  clock  back.    But  the  ques- 

N 


178  ABDICATION 

tion  is  "  (he  reflected),  "  are  we  equally  honest  about  it, 
now  it  has  come  to  the  point  ?  " 

He  looked  inquiringly  at  his  neighbour.  "  I  thought 
you  were  a  red-hot  Nationalist,"  he  said.  "  What 
would  our  friends  think  if  you  aired  these  reactionary 
sentiments  among  them?  " 

"  It  doesn't  matter  much  what  they  think,"  the 
barrister  said  drily;  "  they've  got  to  tolerate  me.  As 
a  matter  of  fact  they  find  me  extremely  useful.  One 
or  two  of  them  would  not  be  here  if  it  were  not  for  me." 

"  Where  would  they  be  ?  " 

"  They  wouldn't  be  at  large." 

"  They  would  be  in  gaol  you  mean?  " 

"  Exactly." 

Sir  Antony  chuckled. 

Barkatullah,  observing  the  easy  and  friendly  relations 
that  were  being  established  between  his  frock-coated 
vis-a-vis  and  the  Member  of  Parliament,  felt  himself 
neglected.  He  leant  across  the  table  and  shouted  in 
a  heckling  voice : 

"  What  will  the  Labour  Party  do  for  Indian  inde- 
pendence. Sir  Greening?  " 

"  The  Labour  Party  will  do  everything  in  their 
power,"  Sir  Antony  said,  "  to  put  India  on  a  footing 
of  equality  with  the  other  Dominions  of  the  Empire." 

Amba  Pershad  hinted  at  conflicting  industrial 
interests.  "  Manchester,"  he  said,  "  is  afraid  of  the 
cheap-labour  market  in  India." 

The  Sadhu,  to  whom  Barkatullah's  question  was 
translated,  protested  that  independence  could  be  the 
gift  of  nobody,  whether  coolies  or  kings,  and  that  it 
was  useless  unless  it  was  wrested  from  the  despotic 
rulers  by  the  people  themselves. 

The  Member  of  Parliament  observed  the  Sadhu  with 
interest  and  asked  Amba  Pershad  what  he  was  saying. 


THE  PARIAH  OF  FORTUNE  179 

Amba  Pershad  whispered  tactfully  in  his  ear  that  His 
Holiness  hoped  that  the  British  Labour  Party  would 
join  with  the  oppressed  Indians  in  their  struggle  for 
independence. 

"  Tell  him,"  Sir  Antony  said,  "  that  the  first  Labour 
Parliament  will  give  India  her  Magna  Charta." 

"  The  Member  of  Parliament  is  of  opinion,"  Amba 
Pershad  interpreted,  "  that  Swaraj  can  come  only 
from  within." 

"  We  ask  no  boons,"  the  Sadhu  intoned.  "  Benefits 
issue  from  repression,  as  henna  gives  out  its  colour  when 
crushed  and  betel-nut  when  chewed." 

His  Holiness  neither  ate  nor  drank.  Fruit  was  offered 
him  and  sherbet  at  the  hands  of  a  Brahmin,  but  he 
waved  it  aside.  All  through  the  meal  his  eyes  were 
fixed  on  Sir  Antony  with  embarrassing  intentness. 

"What  does  he  say?"  Sir  Antony  asked  Amba 
Pershad. 

"  He  is  talking  about  the  Reforms." 

"  Dissatisfied,  of  course?  " 

"  He  says  they  do  not  go  far  enough." 

Barkatullah,  who  overheard  his  host's  euphemism, 
exclaimed  to  the  Sadhu,  "  The  votes  of  a  disarmed 
population  are  as  fruitless  as  beating  husks  for  rice." 
He  then  repeated  the  adage  in  English  for  the  benefit 
of  Sir  Antony. 

The  editor  of  The  Roshni,  jerky,  restless,  irritable, 
explosive,  his  sullen  square  face  the  index  of  disturbed 
emotions,  reminded  Sir  Antony  of  Raemaeker's  cartoon 
of  a  Bolshevik,  a  vitalised  impersonation  of  misdirected 
energy,  planted  between  two  graven  images.  Neither 
the  Sadhu  nor  the  Nawab's  son  on  his  left  and  right 
betrayed  by  the  relaxation  of  a  muscle  what  was  passing 
in  their  minds. 

The  Member  of  Parliament  despaired  of  carrying 


180  ABDICATION 

away  any  impression  of  a  homogeneous  India.  After 
three  weeks  he  had  conceived  no  image  of  the  country. 
Yet  a  figure  of  kinds  with  some  sort  of  definite  outline 
must  be  evolved.  Without  it  the  empirical  politician 
was  like  a  tailor  who  has  received  a  royal  command 
to  drape  the  statue  of  Liberty  without  being  given  the 
least  idea  of  the  measurements.  Sir  Antony  had 
travelled  in  many  lands  and  he  knew  of  none  in  which 
the  psychology  of  the  people  was  more  baffling.  One 
could  think  of  France  as  a  person,  or  Italy,  or  Germany 
or  Spain.  The  Arab,  the  Turk,  the  Afghan,  the  Russian, 
he  had  individualised  like  characters  in  a  play,  probably 
quite  erroneously;  yet  they  were  sufficiently  of  a 
piece  to  fit  a  system  to.  But  India,  it  was  like  a  huge 
jigsaw  puzzle  with  the  pieces  all  broken  and  scattered 
and  chipped.  He  surveyed  the  guests  at  the  table. 
They  represented  but  a  small  fraction  of  the  microcosm 
of  a  single  province. 

The  severe  inscrutable  Sadhu  continued  to  fix  him 
with  his  impassive  gaze.  Sir  Antony  would  have  given 
a  gold  mohur  for  his  thoughts.  "  Is  His  Holiness 
interested  in  politics  ?  "  he  asked  Amba  Pershad. 

"  He  is  superficially  disturbed  by  the  political  current, 
perhaps,"  Amba  Pershad  said,  smiling,  "  but  inwardly 
he  is  at  peace.  His  head  is  deep  in  the  ocean  of  being 
or  not  being." 

Dean  would  have  told  him  that  the  Sadhu  was  one 
of  the  most  dangerous  men  in  the  Province,  but  that 
might  have  meant  to  the  idealist  one  of  the  most 
worthy. 

His  Holiness,  though  he  stared  at,  and  through.  Sir 
Antony,  was  not  thinking  of  him.  He  had  none  of 
the  European's  divine  curiosity,  the  interest  in  things 
for  their  own  sake.  Save  as  a  means  to  an  end,  it 
would  never  occur  to  him  to  analyse  or  classify  his 


THE  PARIAH  OF  FORTUNE  181 

viS'd'vis  or  anyone  else.  If  one  could  formulate  his 
impressions  the  result  would  be  something  between 
indifference  and  contempt.  He  regarded  the  Labour 
Member  as  the  emissary  of  a  people  who  were  once 
strong,  but  who  had  now  become  weak.  The  con- 
querors were  compelled  to  make  terms  with  the 
subject  race.  Naturally  they  would  try  to  trick  and 
deceive  the  Indians  and  get  the  best  terms  out  of 
them  they  could.  Impossible  to  explain  to  the  Sadhu 
Sir  Antony's  sympathy  with  the  under-dog,  which 
amounted  almost  to  a  religion,  his  instinct  of  chivalry 
deranged. 

**  We  must  have  National  Army,  Sir  Greening. 
Real  power  does  not  go  with  votes  but  with  arms." 
Barkatullah  had  returned  to  his  guns. 
Sir  Antony  admitted  it.  He  hoped  that  the  coming 
session  would  see  a  more  generous  policy  in  regard  to 
the  army  in  India.  He  would  fight  the  question  in 
Parliament.  The  nationaHsation  of  the  military  sys- 
tem was  an  essential  part  of  Swaraj. 

"  I  quite  agree  with  Barkatullah,"  he  said  to  Amba 
Pershad.  "  The  weakest  point  in  the  Montagu  Scheme 
is  that  it  provides  for  self-government  in  the  civil 
administration,  while  the  defensive  forces  of  the 
country  remain  outside  civil  control." 

"  Until  you  give  us  our  National  Army,"  Amba 
Pershad  said,  "  nobody  will  believe  that  you  intend 
to  part  with  a  vestige  of  real  power." 

He  affected  to  despise  the  Reforms.  "  They  don't 
touch  the  minimum  of  our  demands,"  he  said.  He 
described  them  as  inadequate,  imsatisfying,  dis- 
appointing. It  was  the  Congress  verdict.  He  in- 
dulged his  irony  on  the  Statutory  Commissions. 
"  We  are  to  be  examined  every  ten  years,"  he  said, 
"  to  see  if  we  are  fit.     In  some  remote  glacial  epoch 


182  ABDICATION 

India  may  pass  the  test.  I  can't  quite  imagine  the 
bureaucracy  that  will  be  satisfied  with  our  quah- 
fications.  Personally,  my  own  idea  of  Reforms  is  a 
change  of  examiners." 

Greening  aSked  him  if  he  intended  to  stand  at  the 
elections. 

He  might,  he  said.  At  present  he  was  undecided. 
He  was  not  quite  sure  whether  he  could  more  effica- 
ciously tilt  at  bureaucracy  from  within  the  charmed 
circle,  or  open  a  broadside  on  it  from  without. 

"  You  will  see.  Sir  Antony,"  Tajumal  Hussein  said, 
"  Amba  Pershad  will  be  one  of  the  new  Ministers." 

His  host  demurred.     "  If  Government  can  satisfy 

me "   he  began;    but   Barkatullah  had  returned 

to  the  charge. 

"  Indians  demand  free  citizenship,  Sir  Greening; 
Indians  demand  equality  under  the  law.  Indians 
demand " 

But  Amba  Pershad,  with  an  understanding  glance 
at  his  distinguished  guest,  pushed  back  his  chair. 

Once  more  Sir  Antony  was  delivered.  "  Splendid 
fellow  !  "  he  thought.  "  What  tact !  What  delicate 
intuition !  I  am  sure  Government  will  be  able  to 
satisfy  him.     A  born  Minister  !  " 

But  Barkatullah  was  not  to  be  denied.  It  was 
understood  that  at  Sir  Antony's  request  there  were  to 
be  no  speeches.  Nevertheless  he  leapt  to  his  feet, 
and  in  a  voice  trained  to  cajole  multitudes  held  the 
guests  in  their  chairs.  "  I  feel  called  upon,"  he  said, 
**  to  move  a  resolution  of  thanks,  in  the  first  place  to 
Sir  Greening,  who  has  graced  the  occasion  with  his 
presence  " — Barkatullah  had  prepared  an  encomium 
on  Sir  Greening,  but  had  reluctantly  decided  to  omit 
it  as  inconsistent  with  his  uncompromisingly  inde- 
pendent attitude   towards  British   politicians — "  and 


THE   PARIAH  OF  FORTUNE  188 

in  the  second  place  to  Mr.  Amba  Pershad,  to  whom 
we  are  indebted  for  this  grand,  not  to  say  sumptuous, 
entertainment.  Mr.  Amba  Pershad  stands  alone  in 
the  foremost  ranks  of  Indian  patriots.  Mr.  Amba 
Pershad  had  the  nobihty  to  resign  Government  service, 
scorning  the  emoluments  that  were  tainted  at  the 
source.  His  eloquent  and  formidable  indictment  of 
the  alien  bureaucracy  has  brought  that  satanic  body 
grovelling  to  its  knees.  The  acts  of  repression  have 
become  more  numerous,  but " 

"  Shall  I  stop  him?  "  Amba  Pershad  whispered  to 
Sir  Antony. 

"  No,  let  him  go  on." 

But  Tajumal  Hussein,  wishing  to  be  at  least  on  an 
equality  with  Amba  Pershad  in  the  good  graces  of 
the  Member  of  Parliament,  called  out : 

"  No  speeches,  no  speeches.  Sit  down,  Moulvi 
BarkatuUah.  The  resolution  is  that  there  should  be 
no  '  resolutions.'  " 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Hussein,"  Sir  Antony  whispered 
in  the  barrister's  ear.  "  You  remember  Daniel's 
consolation  in  the  lions'  den  was  that  he  would  not 
have  to  make  an  after-dinner  speech." 

Then  to  the  surprise  of  everyone,  while  BarkatuUah 
was  still  hesitating  and  explaining  that  it  was  not  a 
speech  he  was  making,  but  only  a  resolution  of  thanks, 
it  was  realised  that  the  meek  little  Kashmiri  Pundit 
was  on  his  feet. 

Pundit  Dina  Nath  felt  that  a  word  should  be  added. 
Barkatullah's  tribute  had  been  a  little  materiahstic 
and  lacking  in  grace.  After  all  it  was  the  feast  of 
reason  and  the  flow  of  soul  that  counted  rather  than 
the  satisfaction  of  mere  animal  appetite. 

"  I  should  not  say  it  was  a  grand  entertainment," 
he  began,  and  here  he  paused,  to  the  discomfort  of 


184  ABDICATION 

Sir  Antony,  who  felt  that  his  host  had  done  him 
remarkably  well.  "  I  should  not  say  it  was  a  sump- 
tuous entertainment,"  he  added,  and  here  he  paused 
again  with  a  deprecating  smile,  his  hand  out  on  his 
planted  mace,  and,  to  Sir  Antony's  growing  discomfort, 
his  eyes  on  the  table  as  if  appraising  the  flesh-pots  he 
had  disdained.  "  I  shoiild  say  rather  it  was  a  pleasur- 
able entertainment."  And  he  sat  down,  smiling 
faintly,  amidst  a  burst  of  relieved  applause,  feeling 
that  he  had  vindicated  the  spiritual  values  against 
the  material. 

"  A  very  decent  crowd,"  Sir  Antony  was  thinking  as 
Amba  Pershad  saw  him  into  the  motor,  once  more  an 
accomplice  in  his  escape.  "  Amba  Pershad  and 
Tajumal  Hussein  have  more  brains  and  better  manners 
than  nine  Englishmen  I  know  out  of  ten.  And  what 
a  charming  fellow  Nizami  is.  Yet  I  don't  suppose 
one  of  them  would  be  admitted  into  the  Thompsonpur 
Club.  They  would  boycott  me  for  that  matter.  No 
wonder  the  Extremists  are  rabid.  If  I  had  my  way  I 
would  give  them  everything  they  want  after  first 
shutting  up  that  poisonous  fellow  Barkatullah." 

Sir  Antony  did  not  reflect  that  he  was  thinking 
bureaucratically.  If  he  shut  up  BarkatuUah  he  would 
be  taking  away  everything  they  wanted  him  to  give. 

The  spirit  of  Toryism  must  have  smiled  sardonically 
at  the  facile  descent.  The  idealist  perverted  by  touch 
of  the  metal  he  would  transmute. 

Then  as  he  drove  through  the  gates — "  But  I  don't 
think  much  of  my  host's  decorative  taste.  Those 
colours  seem  designed  to  attack  one  another.  Stripes. 
They  chastise  the  eye.  One  is  buffeted  by  them  till 
one  feels  giddy  and  sick.  I  always  thought  the 
Indians  were  an  aesthetic  race."  Then,  in  the  open 
road,  "  I  wonder  what  they  all  thought  of  me?  " 


THE  PARIAH  OF  FORTUNE  185 

On  the  whole  Sir  Antony  had  been  a  success.  The 
Nawab's  son  up  aloft  in  his  camel-carriage  was  thinking: 
"  What  a  wonderful  people  they  must  be,  if  even  their 
coolies  are  like  that/' 

It  was  the  only  reflection  that  disturbed  his  tran- 
quiUity  during  the  afternoon. 


IV 

It  was  dark  when  Banarsi  Das  returned  to  the  scene 
of  festivity,  and  he  was  nearly  run  over  by  the  motor 
that  bore  away  the  last  of  Amba  Pershad's  garlanded 
guests.  A  peon  ushered  him  into  a  room  opening  on 
to  the  verandah.  Here  he  found  his  host  alone  among 
the  debris  of  his  entertainment.  The  fragrance  of 
jasmine  wreaths  still  pervaded  the  room,  mingled 
with  cigarette  smoke.  The  table  was  spread  with 
dishes  of  cakes  and  sweets  and  fruit,  mostly  uncon- 
sumed.  These  and  the  ice-plates  and  china  indicated 
the  hand  of  Uzielli,  the  leading  confectioner  in  Thomp- 
sonpur.  Amba  Pershad  was  standing  by  the  table 
heavily  garlanded,  looking  more  pontifical  than  ever. 
He  received  Banarsi  Das  with  courtesy  and  con- 
descension, picking  up  the  conversation  where  they 
had  left  it  when  he  had  appUed  the  closure  of  the 
gramophone  eight  months  before. 

"  So  you  did  join  the  Gazette,  Banarsi  Das,  after  all. 
I  told  you  that  you  would  go  to  Mr.  Riley.'' 

He  tactfully  ignored  Banarsi  Das'  traffic  with  the 
muhajarin. 

*'  Eventually  I  joined  the  Gazette  after  all,  no  doubt," 
Banarsi  Das  admitted. 

Amba  Pershad  pushed  a  plate  of  chocolate  towards 
his  guest.      "  Do  you  like  chocolates,  Banarsi  Das  ? 


186  ABDICATION 

Mr.  Riley's  political  principles  do  not  agree  with 
yours?  Perhaps  you  have  not  the  same  angle  of 
vision." 

Banarsi  Das  shuffled  uncomfortably  under  his  host's 
irony.  "  No,"  he  said,  "  I  share  the  greater  part  of 
Mr.  Riley's  political  platform.  He  is  strong  supporter 
of  Nationalists.  I  too  am  Nationalist.  There  are 
differences  of  opinion,  of  course,  but " 

"  The  differences  are  increasing,  I  understand, 
Banarsi  Das.  Mr.  Riley  is  losing  his  sympathy  with 
the  National  leaders.  I  hear  he  has  become  reactionary. 
Is  he  not  attacking  the  Extremists?  What  is  this 
about  a  libel  suit  Barkatullah  is  bringing  against  him  ? 
The  Gazette  will  soon  become  the  gramophone  of  the 
bureaucracy." 

"  Barkatullah  is  not  a  true  NationaHst.  Mr.  Riley 
says  he  is  fouler  than  his  own  nest." 

Amba  Pershad  did  not  bother  to  defend  Barka- 
tullah ;  he  was  staring  apprehensively  at  Banarsi  Das. 
"  Take  off  the  silver  paper,  Banarsi  Das,"  he  said, 
"it  is  not  easily  digestible." 

Banarsi  Das  had  just  swallowed  a  chocolate  in  its 
silver  wrapping  and  was  on  the  point  of  swallowing 
another.  He  hesitated,  confused,  rejected  the  retriev- 
able part  and  restored  it  to  the  plate.  "  One  must 
discard  the  integuments,  of  course,"  he  said,  hoping 
that  Amba  Pershad  would  think  his  breach  of  social 
etiquette  was  due  to  absent-mindedness. 

Amba  Pershad  nodded.  "  Instead  of  leaving  The 
Thompsonpur  Gazette,"  he  suggested,  "  could  you  not 
use  your  influence  with  Mr.  Riley  ?  A  little  guidance 
perhaps  and  he  might  become  a  pucca  Nationalist  like 
Sir  Antony  Greening,  who  was  here  this  afternoon. 
You  are  sitting  in  his  chair,  Banarsi  Das." 

Banarsi  Das  brightened.    The  oracle  was  not  alto- 


THE  PARIAH  OF  FORTUNE  187 

gether  comfortless.  "  Mr.  Riley  consults  me  in 
political  matters/'  he  said.  "  You  saw  the  Dyer 
articles?  " 

"  You  wrote  them,  Banarsi  Das?  " 

Banarsi  Das  hesitated.  "  I  prompted  them,"  he 
amended  modestly.  "  Even  the  Standard  praised 
Mr.  Riley's  attitude." 

"Then  why  do  you  leave  him?  Continue  your 
prompting.  Soon  you  will  dictate  the  policy  of  the 
Gazette.  You  will  become  a  great  political  force. 
No — you  mustn't  let  Mr.  Riley  become  an  anti- 
Nationalist." 

"  As  I  was  not  safe  from  Government  when  I  worked 
on  Nationahst  paper,  so  I  am  not  safe  from  NationaUsts 
when  I  work  on  Anglo-Indian  journal." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Banarsi  Das?  " 

"  They  threaten  my  hfe,  if  I  do  not  leave  Thompson- 
pur  Gazette." 

Banarsi  Das,  fumbhng  in  his  pocket,  produced  the 
anonymous  letter  and  handed  it  to  his  host. 

Amba  Pershad  laid  it  on  the  table  beside  his  plate. 
As  he  read  he  mechanically  severed  the  sugar-and- 
almond  top  from  a  slice  of  cake.  It  was  a  large  cake, 
cut  into  sections  which  stood  upright  on  the  dish. 
Banarsi  Das  noticed  that  his  host  had  almost  entirely 
denuded  the  sugar-coating,  so  that  the  crown  of  it 
looked  like  a  Himalayan  peak  in  June,  bare  save  for  a 
single  patch  of  snow. 

After  an  interval  the  Pythian  spoke. 

"  If  you  remain  on  the  Gazette,  Banarsi  Das,  they 
may  do  you  some  injury,  as  you  say.  If,  on  the  other 
hand,  you  leave  the  Gazette,  how  are  you  to  support 
yourself?  " 

Amba  Pershad  was  unsatisfying  as  an  oracle.  This 
left  Banarsi  Das  exactly  where  he  was  before. 


188  ABDICATION 

"  I  think  the  letter  is  written  by  Jemal  Khan,"  he 
said. 

"  So  Jemal  Khan  has  come  back." 

'*  All  the  muhajarin  have  come  back." 

Banarsi  Das  forgot  his  imminent  trouble  for  a 
moment,  remembering  the  pride  of  their  exodus,  how 
they  believed  they  were  going  to  return  with  a  vic- 
torious Afghan  army,  and  while  the  British  resisted 
the  invasion,  the  Hindus  and  Muhammadans,  at  last 
united,  would  rise  and  assert  their  independence. 

"  They  have  all  come  back,"  he  repeated.  "  Our 
patriots  could  achieve  nothing." 

"  We  don't  want  the  Afghan  in  India,  Banarsi  Das, 
they  are  worse  than  the  British." 

But  Banarsi  Das  was  lamenting  the  futility  of 
conspiracies.  "  If  the  British  go,  why  must  the 
Afghans  come?"  he  said.  And  he  quoted  Burke: 
"  '  Noble  people  will  be  governed  nobly,  and  the 
ignoble  ignobly.'  Are  the  Indians,  then,  ignoble? 
Why  is  it  that  nothing  ever  comes  of  NationaUsts' 
schemes  for  independence?  " 

"  How  can  anything  come  of  them,  Banarsi  Das, 
when  we  Indians  are  what  we  are  ?  You  and  I  cannot 
make  the  sun  set  on  the  British  Empire." 

Amba  Pershad's  light  and  cynical  assumption  of 
inferiority  jarred  on  Banarsi  Das.  Others  had  said 
the  same  thing  and  he  had  not  felt  hot  and  angry. 
He  had  felt  shame  only  when  he  had  heard  the 
Bulbul  sorrowfully  rebuke  the  assembly  at  Ain-ul- 
Quzzat. 

"  If  you  had  the  courage  to  conceive  any  plot,"  the 
Wahabi  said,  "  and  work  together  unitedly,  and  carry 
it  out  with  resolution,  the  British  would  never  have 
fastened  on  to  this  country." 

"  You  and  I,  Banarsi  Das,"  Amba  Pershad  con- 


THE  PARIAH  OF  FORTUNE  189 

tinued,  *'  are  not  fighting  men.  Our  independence 
will  come  when  the  sepoys  think  as  we  do.  It  is  only 
through  them  that  the  British  hold  on  to  this  country. 
We  are  educating  them  to  pluck  the  feathers  of  the 
white  poultry  of  Europe.  When  they  are  graduated 
our  dehverance  will  come  spontaneously.  You  and  I, 
Banarsi  Das,  need  not  distress  ourselves  to  take  part 
in  the  plucking.  We  are  men  of  peace,  or,  as  the 
English  say,  emasculated." 

"  Rather  the  Enghsh  have  emasculated  us,  and 
made  us  the  impotentials." 

"  No,  Banarsi  Das.  They  discovered  the  im- 
potence and  traded  on  it.  It  is  a  commercial  asset 
like  the  jute  and  sugar-cane  of  this  country." 

Banarsi  Das  was  reminded  of  a  saying  of  Skene's 
at  Gandeshwar.  The  Principal  used  to  get  up  a  foot- 
ball game  every  afterngon.  He  made  out  a  Hst  of 
the  players  and  their  places  in  the  field  and  pinned  it 
to  the  notice-board.  As  a  rule  he  would  start  the 
game  himself  and  referee.  But  when  he  was  not 
there,  the  students  used  to  kick  the  ball  about  aim- 
lessly until  it  was  almost  dark.  The  players  from 
the  city  would  wait  for  the  boarders  to  come  out  of 
the  hostel,  and  the  boarders  from  the  hostel  would 
wait  for  the  city  students  to  begin.  Skene  was  very 
angry  one  day  when  he  turned  up  on  the  football 
ground  to  watch  the  end  of  a  game  and  found  they 
had  not  even  made  a  start.  "  If  only  you  fellows 
could  learn  to  pick  up  sides,"  he  said,  "  and  kick  off 
at  the  proper  time,  there  wouldn't  be  any  need  of 
EngHshmen  to  run  the  country.  You  would  have 
Swaraj  to-morrow."  Some  of  the  politically-minded 
reported  this  speech,  and  made  capital  out  of  it.  It 
was  typical  of  Skene's  frank,  careless  utterances. 
His  students  came  to  realise  that  there  was  nothing 


190  ABDICATION 

calculating  in  their  Principal.  When  he  told  them 
anything  there  was  no  ulterior  motive  at  the  back  of 
his  mind  that  he  did  not  speak  out.  His  directness 
begot  confidence  and  gave  speech  a  new  value. 

Banarsi  Das  pursued  the  melancholy  reflections 
evoked  by  his  old  Principal,  while  Amba  Pershad 
mechanically  returned  to  the  cake  and  divested  the 
last  pinnacle  of  its  snowy  top.  It  was  a  depressing 
theme,  and  if  pursued  to  its  logical  conclusion  might 
well  dissipate  hope.  "  Mr.  Skene  blamed  the  Indians 
that  they  do  not  organise,"  he  said  aloud. 

"  When  they  do  organise,  Banarsi  Das,  the  EngHsh 
are  not  pleased.     Their  gaols  are  full  of  our  organisers." 

Banarsi  Das  thought  of  Jemal  Khan.  The  miiha- 
jarin  anyhow  were  exempt.  He  would  have  been 
happier  if  his  persecutor  were  in  gaol. 

"  Do  you  think  Jemal  Khan  will  act?  "  he  asked 
Amba  Pershad,  "or  is  it  a  plot  to  frighten  me?" 
Inwardly  he  had  little  doubt  of  Jemal  Khan's  mur- 
derous intentions.  He  remembered  his  ruthlessness 
at  Darband. 

Amba  Pershad  picked  up  the  fateful  letter  again 
and  examined  it  carefully. 

"  There  are  others  besides  Jemal  Khan  in  it,"  he 
said.  "  Mllecchla,  Bharat  Mata — these  are  Hindu 
words.  Not  only  have  you  offended  the  Khilafat 
workers,  but  also  the  Hindus  who  are  engaged  in 
the  work  of  independence.  Why  did  you  join  the 
muhajarin,  Banarsi  Das?  " 

"  I  was  persuaded  there  was  call  for  sacrifice." 

*'  Why  did  you  desert  them?  " 

"  I  did  not  desert.  It  is  baseless  charge;  they 
sent  me  back." 

"  But  if  they  accepted  you,  why  should  they  send 
you  back?  " 


THE  PARIAH  OF  FORTUNE  191 

"  I  was  sick  man." 

"  They  say  Bulbul-i-Sehwan  nearly  killed  you, 
Banarsi  Das.     Was  that  because  you  were  sick?  " 

The  words  were  as  terrifying  as  the  eye  of  the  Shin- 
wari.  It  was  clear  that  even  Amba  Pershad  believed 
that  he  had  betrayed  his  companions. 

"  He  suspected  me  unjustly,"  Banarsi  Das  faltered, 
unable  to  return  the  Brahmin's  clear  gaze.  "  Jemal 
Khan  is  my  enemy.  He  brought  false  charges  against 
me." 

"  It  is  not  politic  to  be  seen  with  the  G.I.D.,  Banarsi 
Das." 

"  I  did  not  go  to  the  G.I.D.  They  visited  me  when 
I  was  sick  in  the  hospital  of  the  Gurkhas  at  Abbotta- 
bad.  They  asked  me  questions,  but  I  told  them  I  was 
not  afraid  of  handcuffs  or  gaol.  Even  if  they  dragged 
me  to  torture-chamber  I  would  not  become  base 
informer." 

"  Perhaps  Jemal  Khan  heard  you  had  been  to 
Mr.  Dean." 

"  Mr.  Amba  Pershad  " — Banarsi  Das  adopted  a 
tone  of  injured  reproach — "  Jemal  Khan  went  to 
Mr.  Dean.  All  the  muhajarin  were  summoned  to 
office  of  G.I.D.  for  surety  of  good  conduct.  You 
address  me  hke  judge  or  magistrate.  But  you  know 
my  character.     Is  it  possible  you  do  not  believe  me?  " 

"  Oh,  I  beUeve  you,  Banarsi  Das.  When  you  tell 
me  these  things,  what  motive  have  I  to  doubt  your 
word?  Besides,  I  have  not  charged  you  with  any- 
thing. No  doubt  you  acted  rightly.  Young  men 
have  to  look  after  themselves  when  they  are  in 
trouble." 

Amba  Pershad  did  not  care  whether  he  was  innocent 
or  not.  Banarsi  Das  saw  this,  but  drew  no  comfort 
from  the  indifference  of  his  judge.     It  was  enough  that 


192  ABDICATION 

Amba  Pershad  had  judged  him.  If  this  Laodicean 
was  so  easily  convinced  of  his  guilt,  who  would  acquit 
him?  Not  the  fanatics.  There  was  no  escape  from 
the  net  in  which  his  innocence  was  involved. 

It  was  hopeless  to  argue  or  protest.  No  one  would 
believe  him.  Amba  Pershad,  wondering  at  his  silence, 
regarded  him  curiously,  with  more  interest  than  pity. 
He  could  not  help  noticing  how  drawn  and  wilted 
Banarsi  Das  was  looking. 

"Are  you  sick,  Banarsi  Das?  "  he  asked.  "You 
are  going  to  vomit?  I  will  send  to  Babuji  for  an 
emetic.  It  is  the  chocolates.  You  should  not  swallow 
the  silver  hning." 

The  pariah  of  Fortune  was  conscious  of  an  abysmal 
emptiness  stretching  from  his  throat  to  his  stomach. 
"  If  only  my  cloud,"  he  reflected,  "  had  a  silver  lining." 
For  it  was  not  the  integuments  that  disturbed  Banarsi 
Das'  inside.  It  was  a  spiritual  nausea,  the  ebbing  of 
all  sustaining  humours,  loss  of  faith  in  the  ultimate 
repairing  of  the  balance  of  justice,  that  was  so  cruelly 
weighted  against  him. 

Amba  Pershad  rose  as  if  to  summon  the  Babuji; 
but  Banarsi  Das,  as  soon  as  his  host  was  out  of  the 
room,  slipped  into  the  verandah  and  made  his  way 
through  the  painted  gates,  conscious  that  there  was 
no  refuge  for  him  behind  them. 


CHAPTER  VI 

CHATTER]  I 

Riley's  visit  to  Barkatullah  revealed  this  class  of 
extremist  in  a  new  light.  Their  consistency  in  abuse 
and  reiteration  of  catchwords  damning  to  the  English 
had  persuaded  him  that  they  believed  the  things  they 
said.  And  in  a  way  they  did  believe  them,  because 
they  wanted  to  believe  them.  But  it  was  largely  a 
convention,  and  there  was  not  half  so  much  bitterness 
behind  it  as  he  had  supposed.  Afterwards  he  came 
to  know  the  editors  of  the  Ittihad  and  the  Kali  Yuga. 
The  Kali  Yiiga  editor,  he  discovered,  whose  ravings 
had  made  him  despair  of  the  civilising  mission  of  the 
British  in  India,  was  quite  pleased  to  meet  an  English- 
man and  talk  with  him  on  equal  terms,  and  as  prone 
to  flatter,  provided  he  was  alone  with  him,  as  a  sub- 
ordinate in  a  Government  office.  "  The  pathetic  thing 
about  Barkatullah,"  Riley  said  to  Skene,  "  is  that  he  is 
afraid  he  is  a  worm,  or  that  he  may  be  taken  for  one, 
and  he  wants  to  prove  that  he  is.  not.  I  discovered 
that  underneath  all  his  assurance." 

Cross-examined  by  Dean  as  to  the  impressions  of  his 
visit,  he  described  Barkatullah  as  "a  crackbrained 
fellow  who  goes  in  for  believing  he  is  straight,  and  runs 
this  streak  of  moral  originality,  like  an  acrobat,  for  all 
he  is  worth.  He  has  gained  much  credit  for  his  antics. 
I  have  an  idea  that  in  his  efforts  to  twist  or  untwist 
himself  into  directness  he  may  without  knowing  it 

O  193 


194  ABDICATION 

torture  himself  into  the  genuine  attitude."  This  was 
before  the  Gazette  impHcated  Barkatullah  in  the  Mograon 
incident.  Riley  meant  that  the  demagogue's  powers  of 
self-deception  were  so  great  that  in  trying  to  square  his 
posture,  or  imposture,  with  fact,  just  to  prove  his 
open-mindedness,  it  was  quite  possible  he  might  be 
useful  to  the  other  side.  "  I  am  going  to  get  him  to 
publish  some  of  my  stuff  in  The  Roshni,"  he  said.  But 
Riley  did  not  know  Barkatullah. 

The  Extremist  camp  was  not  well  represented  in  the 
New  Province.  Barkatullah  was  regarded  by  the 
habitues  of  the  Thompsonpur  Club  as  a  typical 
nationalist.  Hill  would  have  told  you  that  Mr. 
Montagu  and  Lord  Chelmsford  had  been  frightened  and 
bluffed  into  the  reforms  by  men  of  his  kidney,  an 
unscrupulous  gang  of  tub-thumpers,  who  had  their 
own  axes  to  grind,  and  did  not  represent  any  of  the 
true  interests  of  the  people.  Parkinson,  with  his  eye 
on  the  same  crowd,  dismissed  Indian  Nationalism  as  a 
movement  to  exploit  the  inarticulate  masses  for  the 
benefit  of  the  intelligentsia.  He  could  not  see  himself 
a  party  to  the  substitution  of  an  inept,  self-seeking, 
indigenous  bureaucracy  for  an  administration  whose 
efficiency  and  disinterestedness  were  proved.  It  was  the 
business  of  the  Director  of  Information,  he  thought, 
to  explain  popularly  the  relative  value  of  the  home- 
bred and  exotic  systems ;  he  looked  to  the  Educational 
Service  to  indoctrinate  the  youth  of  the  province  with 
the  elementary  ideas  of  citizenship.  Skene,  apparently, 
with  all  his  virtues,  was  not  a  good  political  propagan- 
dist. That  Civics  text-book,  for  instance,  to  which 
others  beside  Amba  Pershad  had  lent  a  hand,  had  not 
yet  materialised.  There  was  more  hope  in  Farquhar, 
the  Principal  of  Thompsonpur  College.  Farquhar, 
whose  sympathy  with  the  more  docile  of  his  students 


CHATTER  JI  195 

was  well  known,  had  no  patience  with  the  politically- 
minded.  On  the  other  hand,  he  expected  them  to 
listen  patiently  when  he  enlarged  upon  the  benefits 
that  their  countrymen  owed  to  "  the  British  connec- 
tion." Directly,  or  indirectly,  this  was  the  theme  of 
half  the  essays  he  set  them  and  of  most  of  his  obiter 
dicta  in  the  lecture-room  and  playing-fields.  His 
students  in  the  meanwhile  read  the  lives  of  Mazzini 
and  Garibaldi  surreptitiously,  though  Farquhar  would 
have  been  unconscious  of  insincerity  in  endorsing  the 
hero-worship  they  felt  for  these  liberators  of  another 
age  and  clime.  Had  not  the  best  historians  subscribed 
to  their  apotheosis  ?  He  barely  gave  a  thought  to  the 
existence  of  Indian  patriots  like  Mahatma  Gandhi 
or  Arabindo  Ghose,  in  whom  the  flame  of  nationalism 
burnt  with  an  equal  brightness. 

This  want  of  sympathetic  imagination  was  largely 
the  fault  of  the  Indians  themselves.  Lip-service  to 
Gandhi  was  the  password  of  the  Extremists  of  the  New 
Province,  but  the  spirit  of  the  Mahatma  did  not  dwell 
in  their  councils.  So  when  Gopalpura  accepted 
BarkatuUah  as  a  leader  and  guide,  Thompsonpur 
remembered  its  responsibility  to  the  masses.  There 
was  no  middle  course  for  bureaucracy  :  it  must  either 
*'  infringe  the  rights  of  the  citizen  "  or  abdicate.  The 
picture  of  the  editor  of  The  Roshni  as  the  standard- 
bearer  of  Liberty  was  enough  to  put  more  liberal- 
minded  Anglo-Indians  than  Hill  and  Farquhar  out  of 
sympathy  with  NationaHsm. 

Riley  had  few  politically-minded  friends  in  Gopal- 
pura, though  he  had  many  in  other  provinces.  When 
he  felt  the  need  of  a  corrective  to  BarkatuUah  he  would 
pay  a  visit  to  Suresh  Chandra  Chatter ji.  The  long 
implacable  feud  between  the  editors  of  The  Gopalpura 
Standard,  "  our  contemporary  of  Hari  Mandi,"  and 


196  ABDICATION 

The  Thompsonpur  Gazette,  "  our  contemporary  of 
Empress  Road/'  had  degenerated  into  an  armistice. 
Riley,  of  course,  made  the  first  overtures.  He  felt 
that  he  must  get  into  personal  touch  with  the  best  of 
the  other  side  if  he  were  ever  going  to  understand 
them. 

He  called  at  the  Standard  office  in  Hari  Mandi  one 
evening  soon  after  he  joined  the  Gazette,  and  found 
Chatter ji  sitting  alone  in  a  large  room  correcting 
proofs.  The  Bengali  was  evidently  surprised  to  see 
him.  Riley's  predecessor  would  have  thought  it 
damaging  to  his  prestige  to  call  on  the  editor  of  The 
Standard.  If  he  had  wanted  to  see  Chatter] i  he  would 
have  summoned  him  to  Thompsonpur;  Chatterji,  of 
course,  would  not  have  come,  and  they  would  have 
been  no  nearer  meeting  than  two  Hindu  Rajas  between 
whom  visits  are  inhibited  by  incompatible  family 
traditions  which  prescribe  the  number  of  steps  that 
one  may  advance  without  loss  of  dignity  towards  the 
other.  Riley,  however,  walked  straight  in,  ignoring 
traditional  barriers. 

His  first  advance  was  a  tactical  blunder.  Chatter ji's 
nervousness  was  infectious;  and  Riley,  who  was  only 
nervous  with  very  shy  men,  as  a  result  of  his  embarrass- 
ment made  it  appear  that  he  had  come  on  a  matter  of 
business,  to  discuss  joint  action  in  bringing  pressure  to 
bear  on  the  firm  of  news-agents  who  monopolised  the 
railway  bookstalls. 

Chatterji  nervously  suggested  that  he  should  see 
the  Manager. 

Riley  agreed,  but  sat  down  on  the  chair  opposite 
Chatterji  at  the  editorial  table. 

Chatterji  was  secure  behind  his  defences.  He  would 
not  come  out  into  the  open.  It  was  clear  that  if 
there  was  to  be  any  advance,  every  step  would  have  to 


CHATTERJI  197 

be  made  by  Riley.  This  was  just,  for  he  had  brought 
the  embarrassing  encounter  on  himself. 

To  Riley's  attempts  to  open  conversation  he  replied 
politely  but  monosyllabically.  The  Turkish  Peace 
Terms?  Yes,  he  agreed  with  Riley  in  the  hope  that 
the  Sultan  would  be  left  in  Constantinople.  The 
proposals  for  the  new  constituencies?  He  too  was 
opposed  to  the  residential  vote.  Assent  or  dissent 
recorded,  the  barrier  of  silence  returned. 

Riley  began  to  fear  that  his  visit  was  futile. 
Chatter]  i's  reserve  was  instinctive,  not  deliberate. 
The  Bengali  had  no  thought  of  adding  to  his  embarrass- 
ment by  his  silence,  but  he  was  evidently  wondering 
why  he  had  come.  Patronage,  conciliation,  a  deal, 
a  stratagem,  a  refutation?  Riley  could  imagine  the 
review  of  motives  in  his  mind.  He  felt  that  he  had 
bungled  his  visit.  There  was  only  one  way  out,  to 
say  now  what  he  had  meant  to  say  at  the  start,  that  he 
wanted  to  make  Chatterji's  acquaintance  and  had 
dropped  in  to  pay  him  a  friendly  call.  This  meant  that 
the  bookstall  business  would  have  to  be  relegated  to 
its  proper  place;  his  futile  diplomacy  would  be  ex- 
posed ;  that  is  to  say,  if  he  was  ever  going  to  know 
Chatter] i,  he  must  be  prepared  to  present  himself  as 
a  bigger  fool  than  he  already  appeared. 

As  it  was  the  two  editors  faced  each  other  like  a 
couple  of  suspicious  hedgehogs.  It  was  a  problem  of 
"  Bristles  down."  Riley  believed  that  his  own  had 
no  existence  save  in  Chatter] i's  imagination,  whereas 
Chatter]i's  were  merely  defensive,  created  by  the  illusion. 

'*  I  have  been  wanting  to  meet  you  for  a  long  time," 
he  began  with  the  schoolboy's  simplicity  that  the 
situation  seemed  to  demand. 

Chatterji  murmured  that  he  was  very  kind. 

"  My  idea  was  that  if  we  saw  something  of  each  other 


198  ABDICATION 

occasionally  and  talked  things  over,  a  great  deal  of 
unnecessary  misunderstanding  might  be  avoided.  I 
hope  you  won't  think  this  an  intrusion.  We  belong  to 
different  camps,  of  course;  but  as  editors  of  the  two 
leading  journals  in  the  province,  it  seems  rather  absurd 
to  presume  hostility,  when " 

"  Certainly,"  Ghatterji  said,  "  certainly."  I  appre- 
ciate you  kind  motive  in  coming  to  see  me." 

Ghatterji  was  responsive.  So  much  was  gained. 
But  in  the  embarrassed  silence  that  followed  Riley 
felt  that  he  had  cast  his  last  fly,  and  that  he  must 
return  spiritually  supperless.  Things  might  never 
have  got  any  further  if  he  had  not  noticed  a  chessboard 
on  the  divan  by  the  window. 

"  Do  you  play  chess?  "  he  asked. 

Ghatterji  nodded. 

"  Will  you  have  a  game  now?  That  is,  if  you  are 
not  too  busy." 

Riley  was  aware  that  he  was  behaving  like  a  school- 
boy. Perhaps  it  was  the  best  role  into  which  he  could 
have  fallen.  The  very  simplicity  of  it  was  disarming. 
Ghatterji  by  this  time  had  probably  desisted  from  the 
review  of  his  visitor's  motives ;  patronage,  at  any  rate, 
must  have  been  excluded. 

Chess  rather  bored  Riley.  While  he  appeared  to  be 
deliberating  moves  he  was  absorbed  in  the  personality 
of  his  vis-a-vis.  He  saw  a  frail  little  man  in  a  dhoti  ; 
bareheaded  with  bare  calves.  The  casual  Englishman 
in  the  street  would  probably  have  looked  first  at  the 
calves,  the  white  socks,,  black  shoes  and  incongruous 
black  suspenders,  covering  a  portion  of  the  nakedness 
beneath  the  garment  which  is  responsible,  more  than 
anything  else,  for  the  stranger's  lack  of  sympathy  with 
the  Bengali.  The  middle  of  Ghatterji  was  unremark- 
able.   His  round  head,  though  small,  was  too  big  for 


CHATTERJI  199 

the  body,  but  the  plainness  of  feature  was  reheved  by 
the  eyes  of  the  star-gazing  ideaHst.  Chatter ji  always 
looked  upward  with  the  rapt  gaze  of  one  communing 
with  the  skies.  Though  he  talked  rapidly,  when  he 
spoke  at  all,  his  tone  was  gentle  save  in  moments  of 
indignation,  when  the  explosive  element  in  him  was 
subject  to  irruption. 

Chatter  ji  did  not  explode  once  that  afternoon.  In 
the  game  of  chess  Riley  was  ignominiously  beaten. 
"  You  must  give  me  my  revenge,"  he  said.  "  I  will 
drop  in  again  if  I  may."  These  chess  encounters, 
however,  were  soon  abandoned.  When  the  two  met 
again  confidence  was  sufficiently  established;  they 
discussed  politics  freely.  The  great  advantage  of 
knowing  Chatter  ji  was  that  he  would  tell  you  exactly 
what  he  thought.  His  disinterestedness  and  sincerity 
were  above  suspicion.  He  could  be  fair  even  to 
Englishmen.  He  counted  them  no  worse  than  other 
imperialists,  only  he  insisted  that  there  could  be  no 
cooperation  with  them  until  Indians  had  a  determining 
voice  in  the  government  of  the  country.  The  Reform 
schemes  might  have  converted  him  into  a  Moderate, 
if  they  had  not  left  the  Central  Government  absolute. 
The  fact  of  subjection  was  a  constant  irritant. 
Chatter  ji  was  a  kind  of  Indian  Labouchere.  In  his 
broad  view  of  NationaUsm  he  was  saner,  fairer,  and 
more  consistent  than  other  Extremists,  but  the  sense 
of  racial  inequality  stung  him  to  fury.  Individual 
cases  of  injustice  or  arrogance,  true  or  alleged,  were 
reported  to  him  from  every  comer  of  India,  and  the 
daily  pillory  in  the  Standard,  with  its  restrained  and 
delicate  irony,  did  more  to  exacerbate  Indian  feeling 
against  the  Government  than  the  ravings  of  the 
irresponsible.  Even  Parkinson  felt  uncomfortable 
under  the  lancet. 


200  ABDICATION 

Riley  listened  sympathetically  for  the  most  part 
when  Chatterji  expatiated  on  the  racial  question.  He 
had  not  forgotten  that  vision  of  the  Hun  policeman — 
a  nightmare  in  1917 — at  the  corner  of  Piccadilly.  He 
even  apologised  for  the  Empire.  We  had  tumbled 
into  it  more  by  accident  than  design,  he  explained,  at 
a  period  when  the  spirit  of  evolution  sanctioned 
government  by  those  who  were  most  competent  to 
govern.  He  believed  that  in  many  instances  a  strong 
case  might  be  made  out  for  annexation.  He  would 
have  been  glad  to  serve  under  John  Lawrence.  Now 
that  the  spirit  of  self-determination  was  in  the  air,  we 
were  doing  our  best  to  uncoil.  Mesopotamia  was  a 
case  in  point.  There  the  amputation  was  relatively 
easy.  In  India  we  had  to  devise  a  slow  and  delicate 
operation  attended  with  certain  grave  risks.  Of 
the  two  consulting  surgeons  he  was  convinced  that 
the  Moderate  was  the  wiser.  The  Moderate  and  the 
Extremist  had  the  same  interest  in  the  patient;  the 
only  difference  was  that  the  Moderate  prescribed  a 
cure  that  at  least  deferred  amputation. 

"  You  will  have  to  bear  with  us  for  a  time,"  Riley 
said. 

Probably  he  was  the  only  Englishman  who  could 
have  said  this  to  Chatterji  without  the  shadow  of  a 
suspicion  of  interested  motives. 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  be  any  part  of  the  white  man's 
burden,"  Chatterji  said.  *'  Can't  you  understand  our 
feelings  ?  Wherever  we  go,  enclosures,  reserved  spaces, 
privileges  "  For  Europeans  only."  You  breathe  our 
air  and  complain  that  we  taint  it." 

Riley  protested. 

Chatterji  described  how,  only  a  week  before,  he  had 
been  thrown  out  of  a  second-class  railway  compartment 
by  a  British  corporal.     "  The  man  had  been  drinking," 


CHATTERJI  201 

he  said,  "  but  that  did  not  make  it  any  better.  He 
wanted  the  whole  seat  to  He  down  on,  and  told  me— 
didn't  ask  me — to  clear  off  to  the  other  side.  I  told 
him  that  I  had  as  much  right  to  the  seat  as  he  had. 
Then  he  threatened  me,  and  pointed  to  his  rifle, 
breathing  in  my  face.  '  I'll  put  a  hole  through  you 
if  you  give  me  any  more  trouble,'  he  said ;  *  you 
Indians  are  getting  a  damned  sight  too  uppish.  What 
you  want  is  a  little  more  Jallianwala  Bagh.'  " 

Riley  felt  hot  with  rage.  "  What  an  infernal 
blackguard,"  he  said.  "  Didn't  you  make  a  row, 
have  the  guard  up,  get  the  man's  name  ?  " 

**  I  got  into  the  next  carriage,"  Chatterji  said. 
"  The  man's  foul  breath  in  my  face  disgusted  me.  The 
smell  of  liquor  made  me  feel  sick." 

Riley  himself  felt  sick.  "  My  God,"  he  thought, 
"  Chatterji  of  all  people."  He  understood  why  the 
Bengali  did  not  call  the  guard.  There  would  be  a 
scene.  Racial  subjection  would  be  personified  in  him. 
Every  Indian  would  be  humiliated.  That  was  why 
there  had  been  no  reference  to  the  incident  in  the 
pillory  in  the  Standard. 

He  could  think  of  nothing  to  say  to  Chatterji. 
Commiseration  would  be  an  insult.  The  scum  of 
Empire  could  not  be  excused  or  explained  away. 
There  is  no  room  in  a  country,  he  thought,  for  a 
dominant  and  a  subject  race.  Each  is  bad  for  the 
other.  One  of  the  reasons  why  he  had  so  little  sympathy 
with  the  Imperial  idea,  was  that  he  believed  Empires 
were  the  nurseries  of  cads.  No  doubt  the  Romans  in 
Syria  and  Asia  Minor  were  cads.  He  could  imagine 
the  proconsular  escort  in  Antioch  jostling  St.  Paul  into 
the  gutter,  and  threatening  to  put  a  hole  through  him 
if  he  did  not  make  way  quickly  enough.  The  Normans, 
too,  were  bullying  cads.     Ivanhoe  had  been  set  as  a 


202  ABDICATION 

text-book  by  the  University,  and  the  youth  of  the  New 
Province  went  to  bed  sympathising  with  Cedric  and 
Gurth.  They  drew  their  own  inferences;  and  so  long 
as  Chatter ji's  truculent  corporal  was  at  large,  one 
knew  what  these  must  be. 

Reflections  incommunicable  to  Chatterji.  It  was 
not  for  Riley  to  offer  him  chapter  and  verse  for  his 
indictment,  still  less  to  point  to  certain  indigenous 
products  of  the  Imperial  nursery.  Barkatullah,  for 
instance,  and  the  young  men  in  the  bazars  of  Gopalpura 
who  spat  ostentatiously  when  unattended  English 
ladies  passed  by.  The  expectorating  Indian  could 
not  be  dumped  in  the  scale  as  a  set-off  against  Chatter  ji's 
corporal.  The  Bengali  would  trace  the  genealogy  of 
both  to  the  Imperial  idea.  Or  as  Riley  would  have 
said,  "  It  is  not  good  for  the  upper-dog  and  the  under- 
dog to  bark  at  escch  other  in  the  same  yard.  The 
racial  bacillus  carries  distemper." 

It  sometimes  carries  rabies.  To  Riley,  as  to 
Chatterji,  the  corporal  became  an  obsession  for  months. 
Riley  had  a  tremendous  belief  in  the  British  soldier. 
He  had  observed  him  in  the  war  and  was  convinced 
that  he  approximated  more  to  the  ideal  of  a  gentleman 
than  the  rank  and  file  of  any  other  race.  One  would 
think  that  the  "  parcere  subjectis  et  debellare  superbos  " 
tag  had  been  rubbed  into  him  at  school.  He  had 
watched  a  sergeant  in  charge  of  a  gang  of  Arab  coolie 
women  repairing  a  bund  on  the  Tigris;  they  laughed 
and  chattered  as  he  directed  them  firmly  but  paternally, 
encouraging  the  laggard  with  a  tolerant  "  ither  bint." 
In  the  fire  at  Salonica  the  behaviour  of  the  British 
soldier  had  raised  our  prestige  all  over  the  Near  East. 
The  Greek  women,  half  naked  and  panic-stricken, 
scurrying  about  with  the  valuables  they  had  collected, 
were  the  prey  of  the  Levantine,  but  they  knew  they 


CHATTERJI  208 

were  safe  when  they  saw  the  khaki-clad  figure  by  the 
salvage  van.  It  was,  "  Here,  you  have  dropped  your 
locket,"  or  "  Don't  go  off  without  your  diamond 
brooch,"  as  they  were  lifted  into  the  van  and  a  cloth 
thrown  over  them  to  hide  their  nakedness.  It  was  the 
same  with  the  British  sailor  in  the  evacuation  of 
Odessa — the  incentive  of  toll,  loot,  and  brutality 
apparently  did  not  exist;  and  with  the  military 
policeman  at  Constantinople,  who,  amidst  flaunting 
and  truculence,  pursued  his  way,  cool,  kindly,  casual 
and  incorruptible  as  his  brother  in  Piccadilly.  In  the 
war  the  British  soldier  was  the  best  diplomatist  we  had. 

It  was  not  a  theme  on  which  one  could  expatiate  to 
the  Bengali.  Chatterji  would  neither  be  soothed  nor 
convinced.  The  tradition  would  not  hold  in  Gopalpura 
so  long  as  his  corporal  was  at  large. 

"  I  wish  we  could  trace  the  blackguard,"  Riley  said. 
"I'd  put  his  CO.  on  to  him.  Half  the  trouble  in  India 
is  due  to  scum  like  that." 

"  Would  you  say,"  Chatterji  asked  him,  "  that  racial 
arrogance  is  confined  to  any  particular  class?  " 

"  I  sincerely  hope  so." 

The  Bengali  smiled  sadly.  "It  is  not  my  experi- 
ence," he  said. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  our  civilians  and  officers  are 
ill-mannered  as  a  class?  " 

"  I  would  not  say  that.  Nevertheless  Anglo- 
Indians  generally  give  me  the  impression  that  they 
despise  Indians." 

Riley  protested. 

"  Take  the  martial  law  in  the  Punjab,"  Chatterji 
continued.  "  What  of  the  officers  who  made  Indians 
salaam,  and  get  off  their  horses,  and  crawl  on  their 
bellies  and  salute  the  flag?  Was  not  this  deliberate 
national  humiliation  ?  " 


204  ABDICATION 

Riley  felt  like  a  prisoner  in  the  dock. 

The  Bengali  pursued  his  advantage.  "  You  can 
imagine  the  Indian's  feelings  when  General  Dyer  made 
his  shameless  admissions  before  the  Hunter  Committee 
at  Lahore.  How  did  his  conduct  appear  to  English- 
men? At  first  the  London  papers  affected  horror  at 
the  atrocities,  but  when  they  realised  that  they  could 
not  rule  India  without  frightfulness  they  changed  their 
tone  and  commended  his  resource.  Government,  it  is 
true,  as  a  sop  to  Indian  sentiment,  stigmatised  General 
Dyer's  action  as  '  an  error  of  judgment ' ;  liberal- 
minded  Englishmen,  such  as  yourself,  repudiated 
him;  but  what  was  the  judgment  of  the  nation  as  a 
whole  ?  They  patted  him  on  the  back.  Dyer  is  a  bit 
of  a  hero.  They  have  put  him  on  a  pedestal.  Sub- 
scriptions are  being  raised  for  him  in  the  newspapers; 
sympathy  has  been  expressed  in  both  Houses  of  Parlia- 
ment. Thousands  of  pounds  have  been  contributed 
by  his  grateful  countrymen — as  a  reward  for  what? 
The  crawling  order  and  the  massacre  of  the  Jallianwala 
Bagh — that  is,  for  keeping  Indians  in  their  place." 

"  No,  it's  not  that.  You  don't  understand,"  Riley 
protested. 

"The  English  ladies  of  Simla,  I  believe,  are  sub- 
scribing their  own  token  of  appreciation.  For  the 
Indians  the  Bagh  is  a  national  mausoleum.  The 
peasants  carry  away  bits  of  earth  as  sacred  emblems. 
Sadhus  sprinkle  the  dust  in  their  hair.  I  think  you 
will  admit  that  the  Dyer  case  is  the  acid  test  of  the 
professed  sympathy  of  the  British  public  for  the  Indian 
people.  My  countrymen  have  no  longer  any  illusions 
as  to  the  Englishman's  real  feelings  towards  us.  ' 

"  Let  me  explain,"  Riley  broke  in.  "I  am  not 
defending  General  Dyer.  What  I  want  you  to  under- 
stand is  that  you  have  entirely  misread  the  spirit  of 


CHATTERJI  205 

the  class  who  are  supporting  him.  It  is  not  ungenerous 
or  anti-Indian.  Their  idea  is  that  he  has  been  thrown 
over  by  Government  to  appease  popular  clamour.  In 
a  way  it  is  a  test  case.  Can't  you  see  their  point  of 
view?  Amritsar  in  a  state  of  bloody  revolution, 
Englishmen  murdered,  unoffending  English  ladies 
knocked  on  the  head,  the  prospect  of  a  general  con- 
flagration, ghastly  reprisals  everywhere,  a  repetition 
of  '57.  They  think  Dyer  saved  the  Punjab.  The 
perspective  is  all  wrong,  I  admit,  but  there  is  nothing 
anti-Indian  about  it." 

Chatter ji,  of  course,  was  unconvinced.  Riley,  on 
the  other  hand,  saw  the  Indian  interpretation  of  the 
miserable  affair  more  clearly  than  he  had  seen  it  before  : 
Dyer's  service,  a  cold-blooded  massacre  followed  by  a 
systematic  humiliation  of  the  people,  both  admittedly 
deliberate;  his  reward,  the  applause  of  the  majority  of 
his  countrymen  and  a  purse  of  thirty  thousand  pounds ; 
the  sequel,  advice  to  India  from  an  interested  bureau- 
cracy to  forgive  and  forget,  profuse  assurances  of 
sympathy  and  goodwill. 

"  Apart  from  parliamentary  grants,"  Chatter  ji 
observed,  "  I  believe  thirty  thousand  pounds  is  the 
largest  sum  ever  received  by  an  Englishman  for  any 
public  service."  It  was  his  only  comment  on  the 
reward. 

"  You  think  we  Indians  are  bitter,"  he  added, 
observing  Riley's  dejection.  "  But  tell  me.  Can 
there  be  any  genuine  fellowship  or  sympathy  between 
my  countrymen  and  the  English  as  a  race  until  your 
people  show  a  change  of  heart  ?  " 

Riley  admitted  that  it  was  difficult. 

*'  And  you  ask  why  we  are  not  satisfied,"  Ghatterji 
said.  Riley,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  had  never  asked  any 
question  of  the  kind.     He  had  refused   to  open  a 


206  ABDICATION 

subscription  to  the  Dyer  Fund  in  the  Gazette,  though 
he  had  received  angry  letters  from  the  proprietors  on 
the  subject.  They  demanded  explanations,  and  he 
went  over  the  ground  once  more  in  a  leader,  making 
it  quite  clear  why  he  refused  to  subscribe  to  a  memorial 
in  sympathy  with  the  author  of  Jallianwala  Bagh. 

Riley  knew  that  Thompsonpur  would  not  hold  him 
long.  He  felt  that  he  had  not  done  with  Asia,  but  that 
if  he  was  to  draw  any  happiness  from  the  East  he  must 
take  it  as  he  found  it,  and  let  the  East  take  him  as  he 
was.  It  was  not  his  mission  to  "  police  people 
efficaciously,  more  to  their  profit,  most  of  all  to  his 
own."  He  could  not  see  himself  whipping  and  wheed- 
ling the  Asiatic  and  forcing  the  exotic  down  his  throat. 
We  had  taught  the  Indian  to  desire  independence; 
we  had  started  the  Juggernaut  car  of  liberty,  and  it 
was  a  thankless  business  putting  on  the  brake.  As  if 
having  taught  them  that  we  had  something  which 
they  had  not  got,  we  could  explain  to  them  that  it 
was  not  good  for  them  to  have  it,  or  rather  not  yet 
not  good  for  them,  as  it  might  appear,  because  it  was 
inconvenient  for  us.  Riley  was  as  impatient  for 
Swaraj  as  a  Nationalist.  The  earnest  and  orthodox 
Progressive  no  doubt  found  comfort  in  the  proclamation 
of  India's  liberties,  in  "  the  advance  along  the  road 
leading  by  progressive  stages  to  the  realisation  of 
responsible  self-government."  But  these  sonorous 
phrases  always  left  Riley  with  an  empty,  uncomfortable 
feeling  inside ;  they  were  as  wearisome  to  him  as  to  the 
average  Indian.  He  preferred  Banarsi  Das'  uncon- 
scious pessimism  when  with  inflated  chest  he  declaimed, 
"  The  goal  of  Swaraj  is  certain,  what  to  say  inevitable. 
We  are  progressing  towards  it  with  momentum  of  ball 
rolling  rapidly  down-hill." 

"  But  you  must  first  learn  to  make  yourselves  fit." 


CHATTERJI  207 

Thus  the  bureaucrat,  with  threats  or  cajolery,  as  the 
occasion  demanded.  It  was  all  very  well  for  Parkin- 
son, but  Riley  could  not  see  himself  in  the  pulpit 
when  this  was  the  text.  He  was  lacking  in  missionary 
zeal  and  congenitally  unfitted  for  the  spade-work  that 
was  needed  if  the  Reforms  were  to  be  put  through 
without  the  shedding  of  blood.  He  recognised  his 
limitations.  His  sympathies  were  all  with  the  primitive 
East.  The  intelligentsia  of  India  did  not  want  him 
and  he  was  too  sensitive  to  thrust  himself  in.  He  had 
other  ideas  of  his  relations  with  Asiatics.  The  hfe  of  a 
missionary  on  the  frontier  or  among  the  aboriginal 
Santhals  or  Sawarahs  or  Bhils  rather  appealed  to  him, 
provided  that  one  had  no  gospel  to  preach  or  designs 
on  their  faith.  If  ever  he  hved  among  them  it  would 
be  as  a  healer.  Riley  understood  the  instinctive 
distrust  of  the  Asiatic  for  the  European,  especially  in 
Moslem  countries,  in  Persia,  Afghanistan  and  tribal 
territory,  where  the  idea  was  spreading  that  we  were 
the  enemies  of  Islam.  The  accents  of  the  Prophet 
survived  in  the  Bulbul-i-Sehwan  when  he  denounced 
the  subverters  of  the  Faith.  "  Oh,  you  who  rely  on 
your  apparent  weapons  !  Oh,  you  whose  pride  has 
excelled  that  of  Pharaoh  !  Where  now  are  the  forces 
of  Pharaoh  and  Samar?  You  also  shall  pass  over  to 
the  other  side  from  the  cage  of  this  world.  In  reaHty 
all  land  and  water,  hill  and  dale  and  sky  belong  to  that 
real  Master."  And  he  called  upon  the  faithful  to  rise 
up  and  arm  themselves  against  the  infidel,  that  "  they 
might  either  sit  together  on  the  throne  of  kings  or  he 
on  the  cold  board  of  death. 

Even  in  translation  the  eloquence  survived;  the 
accents  of  sincerity  rang  true  in  every  word.  Dean 
showed  Riley  a  copy  of  the  Wahabi's  appeal  to  the 
tribesmen,  and  he  reflected  upon  the  tragic  muddle  we 


208  ABDICATION 

have  made  of  our  civilising  mission  to  the  East  when 
we  have  to  open  machine-gun  fire  on  men  who  can 
think  and  speak  in  accents  hke  these.  In  the  school  of 
the  Bulbul-i-Sehwan  eloquence  is  drawn  direct  from 
the  Koran,  as  was  the  eloquence  of  old  England  from 
the  Bible.  Words  stand  singly  for  an  idea,  and  have 
not  become  clotted  in  the  mosaic  of  a  formula,  which 
may  mean  anything,  but  which  generally  means 
nothing  at  all.  In  Yagistan  no  one  is  afraid  of  the 
bugbear  of  banahty,  and  the  knowledge  and  faith  that 
is  imparted  fall  as  fresh  as  dew.  Our  ancestors  were 
masters  of  this  inspired  speech  once,  in  generations 
long  gone  by,  but  in  the  pursuit  of  Progress  we  have 
lost  it.  Thus  the  kith  and  kin  of  the  Shinwari  or  the 
Bulbul-i-Sehwan,  when  they  are  drawn  into  our 
schools  on  the  frontier,  learn  to  lisp  in  the  text-book 
English  of  Banarsi  Das. 

Riley  pitied  Skene  and  Farquhar  and  all  education- 
ists and  civilians  who  slave  to  Europeanise  the  East. 
The  EngHshman  whose  gift  he  most  envied  in  India 
was  a  Civil  surgeon  in  the  Punjab — an  eye-speciaHst, 
who  was  reputed  to  cure  on  an  average  three  hundred 
cases  of  cataract  in  a  week.  He  would  like  to  wander 
through  Asia  as  a  healer  of  the  blind — a  friendly 
magician,  accepted  everywhere.  He  would  carry 
with  him  a  serum  for  zenophobia;  that  was  the  best 
passport  for  the  East.  No  one  could  fear  the  gifts  he 
brought.  The  Kirghizes  would  drag  him  into  their 
felt  kabitkas  and  weep  when  he  departed,  and  implore 
him  to  stay.  The  Lamas  would  drone  prayers  for  him 
in  the  gompas  of  Tibet.  He  would  hunt  deer  on  horse- 
back with  the  Cambodian  and  play  polo  in  the  streets 
of  Hunza,  a  pagan  among  pagans,  offering  no  spiritual 
prescriptions  or  good  advice. 

His  days  on  the  Gazette  were  numbered  and  he  looked 


CHATTERJI  209 

forward  to  his  imminent  supersession  with  rehef.  In 
the  meanwhile  he  derived  a  certain  mischievous 
satisfaction  from  steering  his  ship  in  hitherto  uncharted 
waters.  The  old  school,  of  course,  spoke  of  the  vessel 
as  already  on  the  rocks.  But  rocks  or  port — the 
figurative  terms  were  interchangeable — the  thought 
that  warmed  Riley  was  that  he  would  soon  be  free. 
He  longed  to  be  out  of  the  hybrid  muddle,  in  a  land 
where  people  were  all  of  one  complexion  and  the  trees 
shed  their  leaves  at  the  same  time,  and  one  could  enjoy 
the  sweet  unpoHtical  smell  of  meadows,  cut  hay, 
sheep's  parsley  and  meadowsweet  by  the  river,  thyme 
and  marjoram  on  the  downs.  Whenever  he  shut  his 
eyes  he  saw  the  Enghsh  river,  as  in  Mesopotamia 
when  he  wooed  sleep.  It  was  a  particular  stretch  of 
river.  It  began  with  the  mill-race.  There  was  a 
delicious  damp  smell  of  flour  and  hot  waterweed.  At 
first  he  was  carried  swiftly  down-stream  between 
islands  of  rushes,  the  dark  tapering  kind,  past  the 
promontory  ash  to  the  deep  pool.  He  knew  that  if  he 
failed  to  fix  his  mind  on  the  picture  he  would  wake  up. 
He  could  remember  the  grouping  of  the  dark  alder 
bushes  where  t*he  little  black  whirligigs  darted  out  of 
the  shadow  into  the  light.  It  was  generally  spring, 
cuckoo-flower  and  ragged  robin,  whole  fields  of  ragged 
robin,  and  the  marsh  violet,  that  dream  flower,  glimmer- 
ing palely  at  the  entrance  to  the  dykes.  If  it  was 
evening  a  snipe  would  be  drumming,  veering  and 
diving  over  its  nest.  The  reed- warbler  builds  in  the 
rushes  by  the  submerged  willow;  the  parents  are 
chattering  and  complaining  a  hundred  yards  down- 
stream. Vain  subterfuge;  one  knows  that  the  nest  is 
in  the  tall  dark  rushes,  not  in  the  sedge.  Look  over 
the  boat's  edge  and  watch  the  barred  perch  nosing 
through  the  weeds.  One  may  land  if  one  likes,  so 
p 


210  ABDICATION 

long  as  one  keeps  to  the  river  and  doesn't  miss  a  reach. 
If  one  skips  one  has  to  start  again.  In  the  coppice  the 
elder  blossom  is  coming  out,  a  different  smell  in  flower 
and  leaves ;  there  is  a  glimmer  of  yellow  from  the  iris 
in  the  rushes.  You  can  walk  up  that  leaning  pollard 
willow,  soft  and  rotten  underfoot;  the  smell  of  the 
goatsucker  moth  caterpillar  is  hke  decaying  wood. 
One  year  a  turtle-dove  built  in  the  hawthorn  underneath, 
and  would  let  you  survey  her  speckled  coat  as  she  sat 
rapt  and  brooding  and  would  not  budge.  A  helpless 
young  jay  has  tumbled  out  of  its  nest  in  the  ash,  and  is 
vibrating  between  the  bark  of  the  tree  and  a  twig, 
wingless  and  tailless.  It  is  a  season  of  helpless  young 
things.     The  small  white  hand  of  a  mole  appears  out 

of  the  earth But  that  was  far  away  from  the 

river.     You  have  skipped.     So  back  again  to  the  mill. 

Or  it  is  a  month  earlier  when  the  marsh-marigold 
and  the  blackthorn  open  the  year,  or  a  month  later 
when  the  water-lily  stem  has  burrowed  up  to  the 
surface  and  unfolds  its  crinkled  leaf,  a  flaming  month 
of  purple  loosestrife,  hemp  agrimony  and  willow-herb, 
meadowsweet  and  the  smeU  of  hay. 

Or  if  it  were  not  the  English  river  it  would  be  a 
Himalayan  scene,  a  forest  track  in  cedam  cover,  or  an 
orchard  under  the  mountains,  pink  almond  blossom, 
white  snow,  and  blue  sky.  There  was  a  low  spur  of 
the  Pir  Panjal  on  which  he  had  basked  one  morning 
in  April  gazing  across  the  plain  of  Kashmir.  It  was  in 
1914  when  he  was  on  the  way  to  Gilgit.  He 
remembered  three  enormous  hawthorn  trees  in  full 
blossom,  reeking  in  the  sun  like  an  English  hedgerow 
in  May.  Lambs  were  bleating,  cuckoos  singing; 
the  thyme  was  warm  and  fragrant  on  the  bank.  It 
was  before  the  snows  had  melted,  and  the  irises  were 
all  out,  the  small  purple  kind,  growing  in  thick  clusters 


CHATTER  JI  211 

in  the  meadows  below,  so  close  together  that  they 
looked  Uke  a  blue  crop;  they  flooded  the  graveyards 
outside  the  villages,  and  made  flower-beds  of  the  flat 
grass-grown  roofs  of  the  houses.  It  was  like  a  home 
spring.  A  golden  oriole  was  singing  in  a  chemar  tree 
in  short  catches  like  a  thrush  in  June.  His  tent  WcLs 
pitched  by  a  round  pond  covered  with  duckweed  and 
bordered  with  young  willows.  On  the  far  side  of  it 
lay  a  bright  yellow  mustard  field,  sweet-scented  and 
humming  with  insects;  and  beyond  over  the  tops  of 
cedars  he  looked  down  on  the  broad  valley,  radiant 
with  the  variety  of  the  soil,  the  red  of  the  karewas,  the 
brown  and  mauve  land  turned  up  by  the  plough,  the 
green  cornfields,  the  yellow  scarves  of  mustard,  and  the 
Jhelum  serpentining  through  it  all  and  losing  itself  in 
the  Woolar  Lake  under  the  shadow  of  Haramokh.  He 
could  see  the  dark  gorge  in  the  hills  through  which  he 
would  pass  to  Gilgit  and  the  Pamirs,  and  farther  east 
by  the  hill  named  Ahtang  another  gap  whence  by  the 
Sind  valley  and  the  Zoji-la  the  road  wound  to  Leh  and 
Western  Tibet.  His  mind  was  full  of  unpoUtical 
pilgrimages,  and  into  the  paradise  of  his  dreams, 
whether  in  mountain  soHtudes  or  by  the  EngUsh  river, 
no  bore,  brown  or  white,  ever  entered. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE   MAHATMA  COMES 
I 

It  was  April  again.  The  grasshopper  once  more 
was  a  burden.  Riley  was  sitting  alone  in  the  library 
of  the  club,  idly  turning  over  the  pages  of  Blackwood 
with  that  agreeable  feeling  one  has  in  the  booking- 
office  of  a  railway  station  on  the  first  morning  of  a 
holiday.  The  table  of  contents  on  the  familiar  brown 
cover  offered  him  a  mental  ticket  to  Nigeria,  Mount 
Olympus  or  Szechuan.  He  had  not  decided  on  his 
travelling  companion  when  he  heard  the  swing  door 
open  and,  looking  up,  saw  Parkinson. 

He  became  wrapt  in  "  Maga  "  again,  feeling  that  he 
would  be  left  behind  if  he  did  not  make  up  his  mind 
as  to  which  of  these  guides  could  translate  him  the 
more  rapidly,  and  the  farther  away,  from  Thompsonpur. 
Olympus  somehow  was  eliminated.  The  mountain  had 
come  to  Muhammad.     Szechuan ? 

But  the  Chief  Secretary  had  marked  him.  Thomp- 
sonpur reclaimed  him  in  its  most  immanent  and 
menacing  form.  Parkinson  was  rarely  seen  at  the 
club;  still  more  rarely  did  he  seek  out  the  editor  of 
the  Gazette.  This  evening,  however,  he  bore  down  on 
Riley  with  ominous  deliberation.  Riley,  without  look- 
ing up,  was  aware  of  him  solemnly  adjusting  his 
angularities  to  the  folds  of  the  lounge  chair  next  his 

212 


THE  MAHATMA   COMES  213 

own;  he  prepared  to  receive  a  lecture  on  the  poUtical 
situation;  "  Maga  "  sHpped  from  his  knees  on  to  the 
floor ;  he  knew  that  The  Hihhert  Journal  which  Parkin- 
son had  picked  up  from  the  magazine  table  was  merely 
part  of  his  academic  insignia. 

"  You  were  quite  right  about  Barkatullah,"  the  Chief 
Secretary  began.  "  He  was  entirely  responsible  for 
the  Mograon  disturbance." 

"  I  hear  you  are  going  to  arrest  him." 

'*  Barkatullah,  certainly,  and,  I  hope,  others.  Our 
hands  have  been  tied,  as  you  know,  by  the  Government 
of  India.  But  I  think  it  will  be  admitted  now  that  the 
agitators  have  abused  the  amnesty.  The  Extremists 
have  been  given  their  chance.  That  is  to  say,  they 
have  had  rope  enough  to  hang  themselves  on.  Con- 
ciliation, Licence,  Repression.     The  usual  sequel." 

"  Like  the  old  three- volume  novel." 

"  Exactly.  And  the  Home  Government  continue  to 
be  surprised  at  the  denouement." 

Riley  agreed  that  they  had  brought  it  on  themselves. 

"  We  are  sending  a  detachment  of  troops  to 
Mograon,"  Parkinson  continued.  "  The  situation  there 
is  serious.  India  at  the  present  moment  is  suffering 
from  a  form  of  insanity  like  a  sick  person  with  whom 
one  cannot  reason.  You  know  Le  Bon's  Group 
Psychology  ?  " 

Riley  nodded. 

"  Well,  the  people  of  this  province,  and  more  par- 
ticularly the  people  of  the  Punjab,  afford  an  illustration 
of  the  effects  of  the  group  idea.  In  dealing  with  them 
the  same  treatment  is  needed  as  in  the  case  of  mental 
derangement  in  an  individual.  We  must  try  suggestion 
first;  if  suggestion  is  not  effective,  we  must  resort  to 
shock." 

Riley  looked  a  little  puzzled. 


214  ABDICATION 

"  In  the  case  of  mental  derangement,  the  apphcation 
of  a  shock  is  often  very  effective."  Parkinson  leant 
forward  in  his  chair  and  applied  to  an  invisible  barrier 
a  rapid,  energetic  push  with  his  open  palms.  It  was 
the  only  gesture  Riley  had  ever  seen  him  make. 

Parkinson,  regaining  the  stiff,  erect  posture  which 
was  habitual  with  him,  eyed  Riley  as  a  professor  of 
science  might  eye  his  students  after  demonstrating 
the  efhcacy  of  some  chemical  experiment.  There  was 
nothing  dead  about  his  eye.  It  was  authoritative,  a 
stationary  light,  never  ranging,  but  fixed  and  set. 
Riley  was  aware  of  the  impotence  of  any  illumination 
from  outside  to  bear  upon  it. 

"  If  they  don't  come  to  their  senses,"  the  Chief 
Secretary  continued,  "  we  shall  have  to  apply  the 
shock  treatment,  and  if  that  does  not  bring  them  to 
reason " 

The  consequences  were  too  inconvenient  to  pursue, 
and  quite  outside  the  province  of  files.  The  soldier- 
man  no  doubt  would  deal  with  them  drastically  in  his 
own  way.  Parkinson,  in  the  meanwhile,  returned  to 
the  logic  and  ethics  of  the  case,  burying  his  head  in 
the  desert  sands  of  official  illusion.  "  The  Indians," 
he  said,  "  are  very  mistaken  in  thinking  that  the 
Reforms  and  the  coming  elections  constitute  a  material 
step  in  progress  definitely  attained.  This  misconcep- 
tion has  been  largely  due  to  the  weakness  and  vacilla- 
tion of  Government.  It  should  have  been  made  clear 
to  them  at  the  beginning  that  the  Reforms  were 
merely  tentative,  an  experiment  to  try  their  fitness. 
If  they  prove  themselves  fit,  then  well  and  good.  If 
they  fail  in  the  test,  they  can  no  more  expect  any 
reward  as  a  result  of  it  than  an  unsuccessful  candidate 
at  an  examination.  They  will  have  to  learn  to  make 
themselves  fit." 


THE  MAHATMA  COMES  215 

Parkinson  was  evidently  impressed  with  the  patience 
of  a  long-suffering  Government. 

"  If  they  fail  in  the  first  trial,"  he  added,  "  the  test 
will  be  repeated.  We  are  pledged  to  guide  their 
advance  upon  the  road  leading  by  gradual  steps  to 
responsible  self-government . ' ' 

"  Poor  old  Parkinson,"  Riley  reflected,  observing  the 
Chief  Secretary's  look  of  worried  pomp.  "  He  hasn't 
the  ghost  of  an  idea  that  he  is  up  against  flesh  and 
blood." 

"  All  this  agitation  is  fictitious,"  the  Chief  Secretary 
continued.     "  The  Khilafat,  for  instance " 

"  I  am  afraid  the  Muhammadans  are  genuinely  sore 
about  the  Khilafat,"  Riley  interrupted. 

"  A  trumped-up  grievance.  You  are  probably  as 
conversant  with  the  political  origin  of  the  movement 
as  I  am." 

"  Yes.  I  can  see  how  they  have  been  worked  up 
to  it.  The  political  exploitation  of  the  sentiment  has 
been  very  clever,  but  the  sentiment  has  always  been 
there." 

"  Read  Syid  Ahmed.  The  theory  that  the  Muham- 
madan  ruler  of  Turkey  is  the  spiritual  head  of  Indian 
Moslems  is  a  creation  of  the  late  nineteenth  century. 
You  won't  find  any  recognition  of  the  Sultan  earlier 
than  that.  The  modem  idea  has  been  instilled  into 
Indian  Muhammadans  by  the  Lucknow  wirepullers. 
It's  a  purely  political  move  to  embarrass  Government." 

Parkinson  drew  a  hard-and-fast  line  between  politics 
and  religion  and  expected  the  Asiatic  to  observe  it. 
It  was  no  good  explaining  things  to  the  Chief  Secretary. 
He  had  read  many  books  and  was  well  versed  in  Moslem 
lore.  He  would  have  argued  with  Moulvies  and  Ulemas 
about  the  interpretation  of  a  text  in  the  hadis.  As 
for  the  Khilafat,  if  it  was  objected  that  an  erudite 


216  ABDICATION 

Muhammadan  was  likely  to  know  more  about  his  own 
religion  than  an  interested  unbeliever,  Parkinson  would 
have  stiffened  the  official  case  by  extracts  from  Syid 
Ahmed,  whom  he  quoted  copiously.  "  It  is  the  height 
of  ignorance  and  folly  to  associate  Islam  with  such 
affairs  as  pertain  to  this  world,  and  are  regulated  by 
material  cause  and  are  always  fluctuating."  Or,  "  To 
style  the  victory  of  a  Moslem  ruler  as  the  triumph  of 
Islam  is  to  betray  utter  ignorance  of  the  dignity  of 
Islam."  Or,  "  Islam  has  achieved  a  victory  that  is 
real  and  everlasting;  it  can  never  suffer  a  defeat." 

Unfortunately  the  gospel  of  Syid  Ahmed  was  a  dead 
letter  in  India.  Parkinson  would  have  been  more  in 
touch  with  current  Moslem  sentiment  if  he  had  listened 
to  the  brothers  Muhammad  and  Shaukat  Ali.  Indian 
Moslems  were  clay  in  their  hands,  and  they  maintained 
that  Islam  would  be  divested  of  all  its  dignity  and 
glamour  and  prestige  by  the  fall  of  its  spiritual  head. 
Turkey  was  the  last  stronghold.  Every  other  Moslem 
kingdom  had  been  swallowed  up  by  the  rapacious 
Christian  Powers. 

"  Don't  you  see?  "  Riley  said,  searching  in  vain  for 
an  imaginative  flaw  in  the  Chief  Secretary's  logical 
armour.  "  If  Turkey  goes  they  have  nothing  left  to 
hang  on  to.  Imagine  the  whole  of  Christendom  over- 
run by  the  Jews — synagogues,  old  clo'  shops,  Yiddish 
schools,  one  small  peninsula  left  unsemitic.  You'd 
fight  for  it  like  a  Crusader,  even  though  you  happened 
to  be  an  agnostic." 

Parkinson  eyed  Riley  as  he  might  a  mental  patient 
affected  by  the  group  idea.  His  case  was  the  more 
serious  in  that  the  derangement  was  aggravated  by 
habitual  attachment  to  the  wrong  group. 

"  I  hear  Gandhi  is  coming  to  Gopalpura,"  he  said. 
"  Can  you  explain  his  connection  with  the  Khilafat  ? 


THE   MAHATMA  COMES  217 

I  think  you  said  that  Gandhi  was  straight;  but  if 
anything  shows  the  man  up  it  is  his  aUiance  with  the 
Muhammadans  for  the  support  of  Turkey.  A  Hindu 
who  calls  for  sacrifices  on  behalf  of  the  Khilafat  must 
be  an  arch-humbug." 

"  Gandhi  does  not  pretend  to  be  interested  in  the 
Turk,"  Riley  explained.  "  He  has  stated  quite  frankly 
that  by  helping  the  Muhammadans  of  India  at  a  critical 
moment  in  their  history  he  wants  to  buy  their  friend- 
ship. So  long  as  he  believes  in  their  wrongs  it  is  a 
perfectly  straight  deal.  The  Hindu-Moslem  entente  is 
the  first  essential  in  Indian  Nationalism." 

"  India  is  not  a  nation,"  Parkinson  remarked. 

"  Convenient  catchword,"  Riley  thought.  He  had 
his  own  answer  to  it  and  other  parrot  cries  of  the 
bureaucrat,  but  the  approach  of  a  club  servant  with  a 
message  for  the  Chief  Secretary  averted  unprofitable 
discussion.  Parkinson  rose  stiffly  from  his  chair  and 
opened  the  door  into  the  verandah.  Riley  saw  a 
Babu  attended  by  a  scarlet-coated  chaprassi  with  a 
tray  of  files.  The  red  slips,  he  knew,  meant  "  Urgent." 
Parkinson  would  be  immersed  in  them  till  midnight. 

He  picked  up  "  Maga  "  again  and  returned  to  the 
other  Olympus.  Greece.  Why  not  Greece  on  the  way 
home?  He  remembered  Christmas  at  Delphi,  the 
mulberry  and  plane  in  golden  leaf,  a  fine  crest  to  the 
grey  Parian  marble  of  the  treasuries  and  temples. 
Late  December,  and  the  scarlet  anemone  and  cyclamen 
glowed  under  the  sheltered  rock.  Eternal  summer. 
One  looked  down  on  the  purple  olive-groves  and  across 
the  rich  veined  terraces,  variegated  like  a  patchwork 
quilt.  How  jolly  the  Greek  girls  had  looked  shaking 
down  the  olives  with  their  long  sticks  and  loading  the 
panniers  on  their  donkeys.  Bells  on  their  donkeys. 
Blue-shuttered  windows.    A  glimpse  of  the  gulf  like 


218  ABDICATION 

a  little  still  lake  in  the  hills.  The  Phaedriades,  twin 
shining  rocks,  like  the  wings  of  victory  uplifted.  They 
must  have  appeared  to  the  pilgrims  all  of  a  sudden, 
evoking  rapture,  as  the  cave  of  Amarnath  or  the 
temple  of  Jawala  Mukhi  where  fire  springs  from  the 
earth. 

Then  at  night  lost  in  the  silent  olive-groves.  Not 
a  sound  save  the  hooting  of  the  owls.  Thoughts  of 
Socrates  and  Minerva. 

Gandhi  was  like  Socrates,  dedicated  to  the  pursuit 
of  truth.  He  had  the  gentle  obstinacy  of  the  seer, 
unarmed  but  unafraid,  courting  martyrdom.  There 
was  a  great  deal  in  Gandhi  that  reminded  Riley  of 
Christ,  virility  and  meekness,  flinging  out  the  money- 
changers, turning  the  other  cheek.  Naturally  Parkin- 
son would  not  believe  in  Gandhi.  The  Mahatma  had 
got  Government  between  his  teeth  and  was  worrying 
it  as  a  terrier  a  rag  ball.  Selfless.  So  was  Parkinson 
for  that  matter.  Riley  could  picture  him  at  the 
moment  up  to  his  eyes  in  files.  At  seven  o'clock 
Mrs.  Parkinson  would  see  that  the  bearer  took  him 
in  his  iced  barley-water.  A  devoted  public  servant. 
Parkinson  and  his  school  were  as  meritorious  in  their 
dedication  to  an  ideal  as  a  self-denying  religious  order. 
"  I  have  been  unjust  to  the  old  boy,"  Riley  thought. 
"  There  is  not  a  grain  of  selfishness  in  him.  He'd 
work  himself  to  the  bone  for  his  rotten  old  machine 
without  a  thought  of  anything  but  the  job.  He  has 
given  his  life  to  it.  Thompsonpur  has  sucked  up  his 
youth  like  a  sponge." 

Riley  wished  that  he  could  segregate  Parkinson  and 
Chatter ji  on  a  desert  island  for  a  month;  not  that 
either  of  them  would  convince  the  other,  but  it  would 
do  Parkinson  good.     Parkinson  was  dead,  ossified. 

"  Files  are  the  filrn  between  the  bureaucratic  vision 


THE  MAHATMA  COMES  219 

and  reality/'  he  moralised,  and  his  thoughts  turned  to 
the  Himalayan  Olympus  where  he  had  spent  a  month's 
leave  in  the  war,  to  young  men  in  immaculate  Jodhpur 
suits  with  gardenias  in  their  button-holes,  budding 
Parkinsons,  content  with  the  image  of  things,  statistics, 
minutes,  reports,  cut  off  from  the  substance,  cushioned 
and  secure,  far  removed  from  life  and  its  rough  impacts, 
satisfied  with  themselves  so  long  as  they  could  make 
out  a  good  case  on  paper.  He  thought  of  Simla  as 
the  last  stronghold  of  the  bureaucratic  system  and  the 
academic  manner. 

"  Bound  with  red  tape  about  the  feet  of  God." 
Here  Riley  remembered  that  he  was  "  a  fouler  of  his 
own  nest."  Old  Hobbs  and  Bnice-Swinnerton,  his 
accusers,  had  at  least  moulded  men.  They  could  point 
to  their  Awans  and  Tiwanas.  Riley  was  not  sure  that 
he  had  done  anything  to  justify  himself  since  the  war. 
He  had  even  doubts  about  the  usefulness  of  the  Gazette. 
He  must  get  away  and  do  something,  build  a  clean 
nest  for  himself  somewhere  else. 

These  melancholy  reflections  were  disturbed  by  a 
commotion  in  the  bar.  He  heard  Skene's  loud  rumble 
of  a  laugh  and  Hill's  voice  raised  in  challenging  asser- 
tion. He  remembered  there  had  been  a  meeting  to 
discuss  a  proposed  East  and  West  club,  a  hobby  of 
the  Governor's,  which  could  never  be  got  to  amble. 
The  committee  had  evidently  returned. 

Riley  pushed  open  the  door  and  saw  Skene  in  the 
bar  streaming  with  perspiration.  It  was  a  stifling 
evening  and  he  had  walked  all  the  way  from  the 
Secretariat.  Even  the  collar  of  the  precise  Hill  was 
disarranged  and  his  bald  turnip  head  seemed  to  be 
smoking  at  the  top. 

"  What  about  the  mixed  club?  "  Riley  asked  Skene. 
"  Has  anything  been  done  ?  " 


220  ABDICATION 

"  We  have  not  bridged  the  gulf  yet,  young  Riley." 
No  one  but  Skene  called  him  ''  young  Riley  "  now. 

"  Been  bridging  the  gulf  ?  "  Hill  said.  "  Skene  looks 
as  if  he  had  fallen  in." 

"What  are  the  obstacles?"  Wace-HoUand  asked 
Skene. 

"  Chiefly  funds.  And  there  is  no  site.  Nobody 
seems  keen  on  it." 

"  There  must  be  something  jointly  to  do,"  Farquhar 
suggested.     "  Games " 

"  We  know  all  the  Indians  who  play  games,"  Skene 
objected.     "  It's  the  others  we  want  to  get  hold  of." 

"  You  wouldn't  get  them  to  come,"  Hill  said. 
"  We  bore  them  just  as  much  as  they  bore  us." 

"  Personally,"  Farquhar  said,  "  I  think  a  mixed  club 
would  do  more  harm  than  good.  There's  the  election 
difficulty.  Imagine  the  rumpus  there  would  be  if 
anyone  were  black-balled.  It  would  become  a  racial 
question.  There  must  always  be  more  outside  than 
in.  The  excluded  outnumber  the  exclusive,  ten  enemies 
to  one  friend.  Besides,  who'd  go  to  it  if  there  were  no 
games  ?  It  might  catch  on  for  a  week  or  two,  but  one 
can't  keep  an  artificial  show  like  that  going  for  long. 
One's  dog-tired  after  the  day's  work,  and  wants  to 
haver  with  one's  own  people." 

'*  I  would  go  to  it  for  one,"  Bolton  said.  "  I 
would  make  a  point  of  dropping  in  at  least  twice  a 
week." 

Riley  smiled.  He  could  imagine  the  conscientious 
Bolton's  entrance.  You  would  see  the  gulf  by  the 
way  he  stepped  over  it  as  he  came  in  at  the  door. 
The  Indians  would  hate  his  patronising  manner. 

"  It  seems  that  it's  a  cantilever  bridge,"  Wace- 
Holland  remarked,  "  and  the  two  ends  don't  meet." 

"  Why  can't  the  University  run  a  union,  like  Oxford 


THE   MAHATMA   COMES  221 

or  Cambridge?  "  Bolton  suggested.  "  Or  a  Literary 
and  Debating  Society?  " 

"  I  remember  a  garden-party  at  Flagstaff  House,*' 
the  General  said,  "  at  which  a  number  of  Indians  were 
present.  Two  or  three  of  them  asked  me  to  secure 
promotion  for  their  relatives.  Another  solicited  a 
chit." 

"  The  whole  question  of  social  relations  hinges  on 
the  Indians'  attitude  to  the  zenana,"  Bolton  observed. 
"  Let  them  learn  to  emancipate  their  women.  Until 
they  do  so,  they  cannot  expect  to  be  admitted  to  our 
social  system  on  terms  of  equality.  Of  course,  when 
our  Aryan  brother  is  prepared  to  bring  his  woman-folk 
to  the  club " 

Skene  chuckled  and  glanced  at  Riley.  He  had  a 
vision  of  Bolton's  and  Mrs.  Bolton's  change  of  heart, 
their  smiling  countenances  at  the  invasion  of  the 
zenana.  Whenever  he  had  heard  the  vexed  question 
discussed,  somebody  had  raised  the  purdah  objection. 
It  was  the  seal  of  exclusiveness,  and  put  the  Indian 
entirely  in  the  wrong.  Bolton  was  glad  that  he  had 
remembered  the  argument  from  the  point  of  view  of 
the  zenana.  He  had  done  his  imperial  best  and  it 
absolved  him  from  failure.  He  would  emphasise  the 
point  when  explaining  the  difficulties  of  the  committee 
to  Sir  Aubrey  Hilton. 

"  Did  you  get  any  practical  suggestions  from  the 
Indian  Members  of  the  committee  ?  "  the  General  asked 
Skene. 

Skene  smiled  sadly.  "  The  most  practical  comment 
came  from  an  Indian,"  he  said.  **  We  had  been  dis- 
cussing ways  and  means  for  at  least  an  hour,  sub- 
scriptions, site,  donations,  library,  cards,  refreshments, 
election  of  members,  and  all  that,  when  a  barrister — 
what  was  his  name,  Farquhar?  " 


222  ABDICATION 

"  Umrao  Bahadur." 

"  Umrao  Bahadur,  That's  it.  Umrao  Bahadur, 
who  had  not  spoken  a  word  all  this  time,  remarked 
drily,  '  Of  course,  if  any  of  us  Indians  were  to  join  the 
club,  we'd  be  boycotted.'     That  put  the  lid  on  it." 

Hill  emitted  a  hen-like  chuckle. 

"  Seems  pretty  hopeless,"  the  General  said.  "  The 
Governor  will  be  disappointed." 

"  There  is  one  very  simple  way  out,"  Riley  observed, 
"  and  that  is  to  admit  Indians  into  the  Thompsonpur 
Club." 

"Why  not?  Why  not?"  Wace-HoUand  agreed 
sympathetically. 

HlU  muzzled  himself  out  of  respect  for  the  General. 
The  suggestion  was  a  pure  Rileyism,  of  course,  per- 
verse, revolutionary,  springing  out  of  the  spirit  of 
contradiction. 

"  Have  you  met  Greening?  "  Wace-Holland  asked 
Riley.  "  I  was  talking  to  him  yesterday.  A  good 
fellow.  Very  sound  on  certain  points,  though  inclined 
to  be  eccentric.     A  gentleman,  by  the  way." 

Riley  had  not  yet  met  the  Labour  M.P.  He  was 
dining  with  him,  he  said,  and  on  Monday  he  was  going 
to  show  him  round  the  canal  colony. 

Bolton  looked  pained.  The  worst  possible  cicerone, 
he  thought. 

"  He  was  talking  to  me  about  the  Reforms,"  the 
General  continued.  "  What  he  had  to  say  seemed  to 
me  very  much  to  the  point.  In  the  war  I  always 
found  the  best  improvised  officers  were  schoolmasters, 
solicitors,  stockbrokers.  They  had  the  habit  of  making 
up  their  mind.  The  worst  were  clerks  and  subordinates, 
who  had  always  been  told  what  to  do.  Better  wrong 
decisions  than  none  at  all.  So  far  I  am  with  Montagu. 
Without  training  in  responsibility  a  people  must  be 


THE   MAHATMA   COMES  223 

hopeless.  What  can  you  expect  of  the  product  of 
irresponsible  generations  ?  By  our  system  the  Indian 
is,  and  must  be,  an  adept  at  evading  an  issue." 

"  I  met  Greening  once  on  board  ship,  sir,"  Farquhar 
volunteered.  "  People  seemed  to  think  him  a  very 
decent  fellow,  only,  of  course,  quite  mad." 

"  A  labour  capitalist,"  Hill  exclaimed  scornfully. 

Wace-HoUand  ignored  these  interruptions.  "  Green- 
ing was  very  bitter  about  Dyer,"  he  said.  "  By  the 
way,  Riley,  I  am  glad  you  have  not  opened  a  Dyer 
subscription  in  the  Gazette." 

This  from  the  General  warmed  Riley.  Hill  and 
Bolton  retired,  disgusted,  to  the  reading-room.  Wace- 
Holland  an  anti-Dyerite  !  And  there  was  every  chance 
of  them  offering  him  the  Northern  Command.  **  I  hear 
Riley  is  going  to  get  the  boot,"  Hill  said  to  Bolton. 
"  I  wonder  he  has  not  the  decency  to  resign." 

Half  an  hour  later  Hill  looked  in  at  the  bar  and  saw 
Skene  and  Riley  hobnobbing  alone. 

*' Have  you  heard,  Riley?"  he  called  across  the 
room.  "  Your  unscrupulous  saint  is  coming  to  Gopal- 
pura.  They  are  going  to  make  O'Dwyer  Viceroy,  and 
Dyer  Commander-in-Chief.  Put  that  in  your  pipe  and 
smoke  it." 

"  Back  to  the  Stone  Age,"  Skene  shouted  after  him. 
"  Where's  my  axe?  " 

Going  home  Riley  felt  sorry  for  Parkinson.  The 
Chief  Secretary  reminded  him  of  "  old  Wilks  "  who 
used  to  take  the  Upper  Fifth  in  Greek  and  Roman 
History  at  school.  What  would  "  old  Wilks  "  have 
said  if,  at  the  end  of  his  service,  the  Head  had  told 
him  to  stand  down  and  let  the  boys  take  the  class  in 
turn  ?  Yet  this  was  what  had  happened  to  Parkinson. 
In  his  eyes  the  Reforms  were  sentimentality  run  mad, 
responsibility  without  control,  meddling  without  force. 


224  ABDICATION 

He  was  quite  right  to  arrest  Barkatullah.  BarkatuUah 
was  for  upsetting  the  apple-cart  while  Government  were 
handing  over  the  reins,  or,  as  Parkinson  would  have 
said,  "  flinging  them  over  the  horses'  heads." 

At  limch  the  next  day  the  Chief  Secretary  commended 
the  tone  of  the  leading  article  in  the  Gazette. 

"  The  difficulty  before  Government,"  he  read,  "  is 
to  retain  control  during  the  period  of  transition.  There 
can  be  no  control  where  concession  is  born  of  intimida- 
tion. Once  it  is  realised  that  the  political  classes  can 
force  the  hand  of  Government  if  only  they  raise  sufficient 
outcry,  Government  has  ceased  to  govern.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  politically-minded  are  so  sensitive, 
suspicious,  and  resentful  of  checks,  that  firmness  in 
adhering  to  necessary,  but  unpopular,  measures  may 
lead  to  a  state  of  things  in  which  armed  repression  is 
inevitable." 

Parkinson  felt  that  his  harangue  on  the  political 
situation  had  borne  fruit,  he  saw  a  potential  convert  in 
Riley.  But  Gopalpura  shook  its  head.  "  Mr.  Riley 
is  becoming  reactionary,"  it  said.  "  The  bureaucracy 
has  captured  the  Gazette." 


II 

On  the  day  that  Gandhi  came  to  Gopalpura,  Riley 
gave  Banarsi  Das  a  holiday.  "  You  have  not  seen 
Mahatma  Gandhi?  "  he  said.  "Then  you  ought  to 
see  him  for  the  good  of  your  soul.  Take  a  day  off. 
Gopal  Chand  will  do  your  work." 

Riley  had  observed  Banarsi  Das'  despondency.  He 
had  discussed  him  with  Skene,  who  had  so  far  betrayed 
the  young  man's  confidences  as  to  reveal  his  discovery 
that  he  was  a  pariah  of  Fortune,  and  that  the  National- 


THE  MAHATMA  COMES  225 

ists  were  looking  at  him  with  the  black  eye.  Banarsi 
Das  seemed  to  have  lost  all  interest  in  his  work,  but 
he  had  not  so  far  unburdened  his  soul  to  the  editor  of 
the  Gazette, 

"  I  would  write  to  Mahatma  Gandhi  if  I  were  you/' 
Riley  added,  "  and  ask  him  to  see  you.  He  is  the 
busiest  man  in  India.  Yet  he  finds  time  to  see  every- 
body. He  is  a  healer,  remember,  in  every  sense  of  the 
word." 

Banarsi  Das  silently  regarded  the  floor,  wondering 
if  Riley  had  diagnosed  his  spiritual  wound. 

"  You  are  troubled  about  something?  "  Riley  asked. 

"  Sir,"  Banarsi  Das  said,  no  doubt  with  reminiscences 
of  Amba  Pershad  and  undigested  "  integuments," 
"  I  have  a  cloud  to  my  silver  lining." 

"  I  understand,"  Riley  said  sympathetically.  "  It's 
your  position  on  the  Gazette.  You  are  afraid  your 
friends  will  think  that  you  are  not  a  good  NationaHst. 
Take  my  advice,  Banarsi  Das.  Consult  the  Oracle, 
and  do  exactly  what  he  tells  you." 

Banarsi  Das,  released  from  office,  found  himself 
wandering  in  the  streets  of  Gopalpura  long  before  the 
Mahatma  was  due.  Gandhi  was  motoring  from 
Gandeshwar,  it  was  said,  with  one  or  two  of  his  disciples ; 
but  it  would  be  difficult  for  any  vehicle  to  make  a  way 
through  the  packed  mob.  The  city  was  a  hive. 
Women  and  children  crowded  the  balconies  and  roofs ; 
behind  every  lattice  some  veil  was  moving.  Peasants 
had  come  in  from  the  villages  all  round,  carrying  long 
staves  and  bundles  of  sugar-cane,  their  women  behind 
them  in  full  accordion-pleated  skirts,  with  babies  under 
their  arms,  hungry  for  a  glimpse  of  the  Mahatma, 
praying  that  they  might  be  allowed  to  approach  and 
touch  his  feet.  To  the  peasants  Gandhi  was  a  tradition, 
a  legend.  They  would  go  a  long  way  to  see  a  holy  man. 
0 


226  ABDICATION 

They  knew  not  where  he  would  lead  them,  or  whence 
he  had  come ;  they  only  knew  that  he  was  reputed  to 
be  a  saint,  an  avatar,  a  manifestation  of  the  divine 
energy,  witnessed  once  in  a  thousand  years,  and  that 
wherever  he  passed,  the  country  was  awakened. 
"  Caravans  marched  at  the  sound  of  his  bell  and 
followed  the  voice  of  his  pipe." 

Banarsi  Das,  leaning  against  the  coping  of  the  well 
in  the  square  outside  Amir  Khan's  mosque,  heard  the 
peasants  discussing  him. 

"  They  say  no  sword  can  cut  his  body.  He  can 
receive  no  wound.  Bullets  aimed  at  him  fall  harm- 
lessly from  his  coat." 

"  Neither  can  fire  touch  him ;  he  can  receive  no  burn." 

"  The  Sircar  cannot  touch  him.  Magistrates  are 
afraid.     He  has  come  to  overthrow  the  Government." 

"  Will  he  be  king?  "  a  small  boy  asked. 

"He  is  a  holy  man  and  does  not  wish  to  be  king. 
Kings  will  obey  him.  Rajas  will  visit  him  with  bare 
feet." 

"  Has  he  not  forbidden  the  use  of  arms?  " 

"  Ah,  Arjun-ji." 

"  How  then  will  he  overthrow  the  Sircar?  " 

"He  is  a  holy  man  and  can  work  miracles.  The 
mantra  ^  of  the  Guru  is  more  powerful  than  bullets 
or  swords." 

"  Barkatullah  says  arms  will  be  used,  but  not  yet." 

Banarsi  Das  recognised  the  voice  of  a  citizen. 

"  May  he  not  be  too  holy,"  an  old  Jat  said,  "  to 
look  after  our  canal  water  when  the  British  have  gone." 

"  The  British  are  already  shutting  off  the  canal 
water,"  the  citizen  said.  "  They  are  angry  with  the 
zemindars.     Clearly  you  are  not  from  Mograon." 

Here  the  high  throaty  voice  of  a  Babu  punctuated 
1  Spell. 


THE  MAHATMA  COMES  227 

this  simple  talk,  rolling  his  vowels  and  mouthing  and 
emphasising  every  other  syllable  as  if  the  alien  tongue 
were  honey  on  his  lips. 

"  Of  ca-arse,  after  all,  no  doubt,  if  there  is  boycott 
of  English  cloth,  the  vested  interests  of  the  weavers 
will  be  con-sid-er-ably  am-el-ior-ated ;  but  then,  on 
the  other  hand,  of  ca-arse,  after  all,  no  doubt,  the 
vested  interests  of  the  merchants  will  be  con-sid-er-ably 
det-er-ior-ated." 

It  was  a  piece-cloth  merchant  sententiously  review- 
ing the  economic  aspects  of  the  Mahatma's  visit. 
Banarsi  Das  could  not  see  him;  he  was  jammed  too 
tightly  against  the  wall.  Anyhow,  it  was  not  a 
moment  to  weigh  or  appraise  the  mandates  of  the 
Mahatma.  Distant  shouts  told  of  his  approach. 
The  pariah  of  Fortune  began  to  despair  of  the  healing 
vision.  As  the  crowd  thickened,  he  could  not  see  the 
road;  the  broad  backs  of  the  zemindars  interposed  a 
screen.  Soon  he  found  himself  squeezed  into  the 
angle  between  the  well  and  the  chahoiUra  ^  of  the 
peepul-tree  that  gave  the  only  shade  in  the  square. 
With  a  pious  effort  he  clambered  up  on  to  the  coping 
of  the  well,  and  swinging  himself  on  to  a  branch  of 
the  peepul,  wriggled  along  it  until  his  back  rested 
against  the  trunk.  The  tree  was  already  burdened 
with  figures  hke  a  vulture-haunted  banyan  in  a 
burning  ghat.  He  looked  down  on  to  the  signboard 
of  The  Roshni.  BarkatuUah,  he  knew,  would  be  with 
Gandhi.  The  din  was  growing  louder,  as  the  crowd 
was  being  pressed  into  the  square  along  the  tributary 
streets  and  alleys.  The  Mahatma  was  now  evidently 
in  the  main  thoroughfare  of  the  bazar  leading  to 
Amir    Khan's    mosque.     Slowly    moving    flags    and 

^  The  platform  of  stone  or  concrete,  built  as  a  resting-place 
under  the  shade  of  a  tree. 


228  ABDICATION 

pennons  marked  his  progress.  The  cries  of  the  pro- 
cession, "  Mahatma  Gandhi-ki-jai/'  "  Hindu-Mussal- 
man-ki-jai,"  were  caught  up  and  echoed  in  the  square. 
At  last  the  car  came  into  sight;  it  was  packed  with 
the  Mahatma's  disciples,  fezes  and  white  Gandhi  caps ; 
the  turban  of  the  driver  made  a  purple  spot  as  he 
steered  desperately;  the  engine  had  been  stopped; 
the  crowd  pushed  at  the  back  and  sides. 

Outside  the  steps  of  Amir  Khan's  mosque  the  pro- 
cession halted.  Banarsi  Das  recognised  BarkatuUah 
in  the  car,  even  in  the  presence  of  the  Saint  trying  to 
look  important,  aping  affinity,  his  reverence  suUied 
by  the  gestures  of  the  showman,  trying  to  look  as  if 
it  were  he  who  had  brought  Gandhi  to  Gopalpura. 

The  Mahatma  sat  cross-legged  on  the  folded  hood 
of  the  motor  Hke  a  diminutive  Buddha,  still  as  a 
graven  image,  gentleness  personified.  The  people 
bowed  low  before  him,  folding  their  hands.  His 
physical  frailty  intensified  their  love.  Flowers  were 
showered  on  him,  jasmine  and  marigold  smothered  the 
car  like  the  sweepings  of  a  temple,  but  he  refused  to 
be  garlanded.  The  crowd  surged  towards  the  motor, 
but  only  the  strong  could  cleave  a  way  through  and 
touch  the  Mahatma's  feet.  For  a  long  time  no  voice 
could  be  heard  above  the  babel.  The  car  was  marooned. 
Mats  had  been  spread  for  the  Mahatma  and  his  dis- 
ciples on  the  steps  of  the  mosque,  but  it  seemed  there 
was  no  way  of  reaching  them  except  by  walking  on 
the  heads  of  the  crowd.  The  Khilafat  volunteers, 
who  had  been  appointed  to  act  the  part  of  police, 
and  to  form  a  ring  round  Gandhi  to  save  him  from 
being  crushed  by  the  mob,  had  become  an  undis- 
ciplined, disorganised  rabble.  Instead  of  keeping  the 
crowd  back  they  pressed  in  with  it  and  aggravated 
the  ecstatic  chaos. 


THE  MAHATMA  COMES  229 

Suddenly  the  babel  was  stilled.  Gandhi,  by  simply 
raising  his  hand,  had  produced  silence  in  the  square. 
He  was  standing  in  the  motor,  and  wherever  his  frail 
form  could  be  seen  the  uproar  died  away  like  a  rustle 
in  the  trees. 

"  Ah  !  "  the  Jat  said.  "  Behold  Krishna-ji.  It  is  a 
miracle.     Surely  he  is  an  avatar.'* 

Gandhi  rebuked  Gopalpura.  He  told  them  that  he 
did  not  care  for  shouts  of  Mahatma  Gandhi-ki-jai  or 
Hindu-Mussalman-ki-jai;  he  wanted  something  prac- 
tical from  them,  if  they  had  any  regard  for  him.  It 
was  not  the  hour  for  noise  or  boasting.  So  far  they 
had  httle  to  their  credit  to  make  them  feel  proud. 
Thousands  flocked  to  the  Congress  pandal  and  made 
resolutions,  but  how  many  acted  up  to  them  when 
they  came  away?  The  words  "sacrifice"  and 
"  discipline  "  were  on  every  lip,  but  where  was  the 
spirit  of  sacrifice  and  discipline?  They  were  unable 
even  to  conduct  gatherings  in  a  disciplined  manner. 
Patience,  humility,  self-restraint,  sohd  and  silent 
self-sacrifice  were  needed,  if  they  were  to  attain  their 
liberties.  If  they  possessed  these  quahties;  if  they 
were  true  to  themselves,  they  could  obtain  Swaraj 
in  a  year. 

But  not  by  violence.  Gandhi  preached  the  shame- 
fulness  and  wickedness  of  violence,  the  impotence  of 
violence  in  a  cause  where  the  struggle  is  for  a  spiritual 
end.  Were  Indians  to  become  no  better  than  Dyers 
or  O'Dwyers  ?  Non-violence  was  a  creed  with  him — 
he  would  not  injure  an  Enghshman  to  obtain  a  king- 
dom; with  others  it  was  a  policy.  But,  creed  or 
policy,  "  Swaraj  depends  on  our  ability  to  control  all 
the  forces  of  violence  on  our  side." 

The  Mahatma  then  explained  that  non-cooperation 
was    a    religious    and    purifying    movement,    neither 


230  ABDICATION 

punitive  nor  vindictive,  nor  based  on  malice,  ill-will 
or  hatred;  it  was  a  struggle  between  religion  and 
irreligion,  between  the  powers  of  light  and  the  powers 
of  darkness.  Every  day  it  was  strengthening  the 
nation,  which  still  had  the  capacity  of  preserving  its 
honour,  its  manhood.  The  path  was  so  easy  from 
helplessness  and  servitude  to  self-respect.  It  was  a 
matter  of  shame  that  a  hundred  thousand  foreigners 
should  rule  and  exploit  three  hundred  and  fifteen 
million  Indians,  emasculating  them,  indoctrinating 
them  with  the  spirit  of  materialism  and  a  sense  of 
their  racial  unfitness.  India  for  the  last  century  and 
a  half  had  been  suffering  a  species  of  hypnotism. 
Absolute  equahty,  absolute  freedom  was  the  birth- 
right of  every  people,  but  Indians  are  denied  freedom, 
equality  and  even  justice.  They  had  bound  them- 
selves with  their  own  chains;  it  was  easy  to  cast 
them  off.  No  Government  could  exist  a  day  without 
the  cooperation  of  the  people.  "  Dissociate  your- 
selves from  the  satanic  Administration  and  you  will 
bring  it  to  its  knees.  You  will  not  have  to  lift  a 
finger,  let  alone  a  stick  or  sword. 

"  Only  there  is  no  room  for  expediency,  or  fear,  or 
half -measures.  Cut  yourself  off  from  the  evil  in 
disregard  of  all  consequences.  Have  faith  in  a  good 
deed,  that  it  will  produce  a  good  result.  Be  prepared 
to  lose  all  and  you  will  gain  everything.  And  after  all 
what  is  the  cost?  A  little  sacrifice,  a  httle  suffering, 
a  little  discipline.  And  you  have  it  in  your  power  to 
paralyse  the  Government  that  flouts  your  wishes, 
insults  your  honour,  tramples  on  your  manhood. 
You  may  become  a  people  again.  Without  an  act 
or  thought  of  violence,  you  may  be  the  authors 
of  the  most  peaceful  revolution  the  world  has  ever 
seen." 


THE  MAHATMA  COMES  281 

Banarsi  Das  in  his  tree  could  hear  every  word.  All 
his  old  aspirations  revived.  The  Mahatma  spoke  very 
gently,  very  persuasively;  none  who  listened  to  him 
could  doubt  his  detachment  from  anger,  or  fear,  or 
hatred,  or  pride.  What  was  the  secret  of  his  mag- 
netism ?  There  was  no  hint  of  forcefulness  or  command 
in  his  diminutive  person.  It  was  not  so  much  a 
person  as  an  embodied  type,  that  essence  of  selfless 
spirituahty  that  is  personified  in  the  Buddha,  of  which 
Banarsi  Das  had  read  in  the  sacred  books  of  the  East. 
When  the  Mahatma  raised  his  hand  Banarsi  Das  was 
full  of  pride.  The  Vedas,  the  Bhagavat  Gita  were  no 
legends.  Here  was  the  living  incarnation  of  the  spirit 
that  had  made  his  country  great.  All  who  heard  him 
were  affected.  Not  one  of  them  would  have  hesitated 
in  the  presence  of  the  Mahatma  to  commit  himself 
to  any  sacrifice.  Amba  Pershad  would  have  given 
away  his  motor-car.  Banarsi  Das  would  have  under- 
taken to  beard  the  Shinwari;  he  would  have  started 
walking  from  Haripur  to  Amb;  he  would  have  over- 
come the  terrors  of  the  Gave  of  Adullam.  Even 
Barkatullah  was  uphfted,  and  arrogated  to  himself  the 
mantle  of  the  Saint.  Henceforth  he  would  think  and 
talk  hke  Gandhi.  He  saw  himself  panting  in  the 
pursuit  of  truth.  He  too  was  a  spiritual  leader,  one 
to  be  worshipped  by  the  herd,  an  illuminator.  His 
eye  caught  the  signboard  of  The  Roshni.  Piety  had 
doubled  his  sales.  He  began  to  calculate.  Had  he 
been    uncompromising    enough?     What    if    he    were 

even    bolder?     To    increase    the    candle-power ? 

But    with    the    risk    of    extinction ?     His    mind 

became  a  balance  sheet  as  he  repeated,  "  How  can  the 
shades  of  darkness  resist  the  flood  of  light?  " 

When  the  Mahatma  ceased,  the  cries  of  salutation 
were    raised    again,    "  Mahatma    Gandhi-ki-jai    and 


232  ABDICATION 

Hindu-Mussalman-ki-jai,"  and  among  them  Banarsi 
Das  could  distinguish  an  occasional  tribute  to  some 
local  leader.  The  "  Gandhi-ki-jai,  BarkatuUah-ki-jai," 
on  the  hps  of  certain  lusty  Mussalmans  shocked  him 
as  the  association  of  the  Saint  with  the  charlatan 
had  shocked  Riley.  Did  Gandhi  see  through  Barka- 
tuUah?  he  wondered.  No  doubt  the  Mahatma  saw 
through  him.  Probably  he  had  a  great  compassion 
for  the  editor  of  The  Roshni,  and  pitied  him  as  he 
pitied  Dyer  and  O'Dwyer  and  other  agents  of  the 
Spirit  of  Evil.  For  he  was  tolerant  and  wise  hke  all 
inspired  reformers.  And  he  could  read  the  mind  of 
the  masses.  He  understood  this  hunger  for  dedica- 
tion, and  knew  exactly  what  it  was  worth.  He  did 
not  disdain  it.  Even  though  it  were  merely  an  appe- 
tite unsatisfied,  was  not  that  something  gained  for 
the  cause?  And  were  not  the  streets  of  Gopalpura 
paved  with  pious  resolutions? 

The  Mahatma  descended  from  the  car  and  passed 
through  the  chastened  crowd  to  the  steps  of  the 
mosque.  He  had  invested  the  undisciplined  volun- 
teers with  a  momentary  authority.  Banarsi  Das 
could  no  longer  hear  his  words,  but  he  clung  to  his 
perch  on  the  tree  and  watched  the  people  come  and 
go.  He  saw  a  group  of  Muhammadans  bring  up  a 
garlanded  cow.  It  was  a  gift  to  the  sabha,  and  it 
meant  that  henceforth  they  would  sacrifice  sheep  and 
goats  instead  of  kine. 

"  Ah,"  it  was  cried.  "  He  has  made  the  mosque 
and  the  temple  one.     Allah  and  Brahm  are  one  name.'' 

Then  he  saw  a  sweeper-woman  approach  the  Ma- 
hatma. His  disciples  tried  to  keep  her  back,  but  he 
beckoned  to  her  with  a  humble  brotherly  gesture. 
"  Let  her  come,"  he  called  to  his  disciples,  and  he 
made  room  for  her  by  his  side. 


THE  MAHATMA  COMES  288 

The  multitude  were  impressed.  Banarsi  Das  heard 
a  voice  above  him  in  the  tree  : 

"  Look  at  this  Prophet  with  clothes  not  worth  five 
annas  in  all  on  him  and  with  the  top  button  of  his 
shirt  gone,  before  whom  the  followers  of  all  religions 
in  India  bow  low." 

And  a  student  below  him  quoted  Iqbal : 

"  He  slept  on  a  mat  of  rushes;  but  the  crown  of 
the  Ghosroes  was  under  his  people's  feet." 

And  so  all  day  the  Mahatma  inspired  the  citizens 
of  Gopalpura  with  his  faith.  It  was  a  triumph  of 
the  spirit;  he  was  charged  with  a  vitahty  drawn 
from  his  devotion.  When  Riley  saw  him  he  looked 
weak  and  frail  and  tired,  as  if  a  woman  might  have 
lifted  him  up  in  her  arms  like  a  child  and  put  him  to 
bed.  When  Banarsi  Das  saw  his  car  drawn  in  triumph 
into  the  square  by  Amir  Khan's  mosque,  he  had 
motored  a  hundred  and  twenty  miles  from  Gandesh- 
war,  where  he  had  held  a  meeting  in  the  early  morning 
after  a  night  without  sleep.  At  every  station  his 
adorers  had  collected  in  crowds  on  the  platform  to 
greet  him.  It  was  explained  to  them  that  he  was 
exhausted  and  needed  rest,  but  they  were  deaf  to 
these  appeals.  They  cHmbed  on  to  the  footboard  of 
his  carriage  to  have  a  peep  at  the  Mahatma.  Many 
of  them  had  walked  twenty  miles  just  for  a  glimpse. 
When  the  Ughts  were  put  out  by  his  disciples,  they 
brought  in  lanterns;  when  the  wooden  shutters  of 
the  windows  were  let  down,  they  tried  to  pull  them  up 
from  outside.  It  was  useless  to  feign  sleep.  Night 
and  day  he  was  the  centre  of  an  ecstatic  crowd,  deafened 
by  their  acclamations. 

In  the  afternoon  he  saw  the  students  of  the  city  in 
the  courtyard  of  the  Hindu  Ashram.  He  advised 
them  to  shun  Government  employment  and  to  follow 


234  ABDICATION 

some  trade,  to  lead  independent  lives,  to  wear  home- 
spun cloth  only,  and  to  speak  the  truth.  In  the 
evening  the  ladies  of  the  city  visited  him  and  found 
him  sitting  at  the  spinning-wheel  and  working  with 
his  own  hands.  He  exhorted  them  to  go  back  to  the 
simple  household  ways  and  spin  their  own  cloth. 
"  Weave  for  your  brother  a  new  warm  coat,  a  coat 
not  sewn  with  foreign  thread,  or  by  machine,  but 
with  country  thread  by  hand.  Thus  the  six  crores 
of  rupees  that  are  spent  every  year  on  foreign  cloth 
will  be  saved  for  the  poor.  In  the  old  days  of  the 
spinning-wheel  India  was  prosperous,  but  since  the 
people  have  taken  to  European  fineries  the  country 
has  become  degenerate,  and  imam  and  dharm  ^  are 
fast  disappearing." 

The  ladies  agreed.  They  tore  off  their  ornaments 
and  gave  them  to  him  for  the  Swaraj  fund ;  but  when 
they  got  back  to  their  homes  they  shook  their  heads 
and  talked  over  his  advice  as  a  piece  of  gossip.  They 
toiled  not,  neither  did  they  spin;  nevertheless  they 
spoke  of  the  Mahatma  as  an  avatar. 

When  the  ladies  left  him  he  received  visitors,  by  or 
without  appointment — journalists,  politicians,  workers, 
wire-pullers,  worldly  and  religious  men.  At  night 
somehow  he  got  through  his  exacting  correspondence, 
the  editing  of  his  weekly  journal,  his  address  for  the 
next  day.  He  was  two  and  a  half  days  in  Gopalpura 
and  he  saw  everyone  :  he  saw  Riley ;  he  saw  Sir 
Antony  Greening;   he  saw  Banarsi  Das. 

Banarsi  Das  apparently  had  been  advised  to  stay 
on  the  Gazette.  Possibly  it  was  because  his  English 
employer  was  approved.  Riley  discovered  that  the 
Mahatma  rather  Hked  Englishmen.  The  thing  that 
separated  Gandhi  more  than  anything  else  from  other 
1  Religion. 


THE   MAHATMA   COMES  285 

political  leaders  was  that  he  had  the  courage  to  stand 
up  in  a  great  assembly  and  utter  unpalatable  truths. 
The  herd  followed  him  because  they  recognised  that 
he  was  without  moral  or  physical  fear.  Riley's 
sympathies  were  first  drawn  to  Gandhi  by  the  chival- 
rous way  he  had  protected  Mrs.  Besant  from  the  pack. 
"  How  English  !  "  he  thought.  But  if  he  had  put  that 
in  the  Gazette,  how  the  Indians  would  have  raged  ! 
Gandhi,  however,  could  admire  Englishmen.  In  one 
of  his  speeches  he  reminded  his  countrymen  that  they 
were  offering  battle  to  a  nation  which  is  "  saturated 
with  the  spirit  of  sacrifice  whenever  the  occasion  rises." 
He  asked  them  to  go  through  the  sacrifice  that  "  the 
men,  women,  and  brave  lads  of  England  went  through." 
They  believed  him  now  when  he  told  them  that 
Government  was  material  and  godless  and  that  it  was 
sinful  to  associate  with  it,  because  a  few  months  earlier, 
when  he  still  had  faith  in  the  Reforms,  he  had  dared 
to  say  creditable  things  about  it. 

"  I  do  not  blame  the  British,"  Gandhi  said.  "  If 
we  were  weak  in  numbers  as  they  are,  we  too  would 
perhaps  have  resorted  to  the  same  methods  as  they  are 
now  employing.  Terrorism  and  deception  are  weapons 
not  of  the  strong,  but  of  the  weak.  The  British  are 
weak  in  numbers;  we  are  weak  in  spite  of  numbers. 
The  result  is  that  each  is  dragging  the  other  down." 

This  was  Riley's  argument :  "  We  are  neither  of 
us  good  for  the  other."  Gandhi's  picture  of  India, 
the  slave  of  a  handful  of  British  "  who  dare  not  trust 
us  with  arms  and  only  feel  safe  under  the  shelter  of 
their  forts  and  guns,"  had  more  than  a  shadow  of  truth 
in  it.  "  The  system  is  vile,"  the  Mahatma  said. 
"  The  Englishman  is  contaminated  by  it,  a  slave  of 
the  system;  we  too  are  degraded  by  it."  He  was 
going  to  fight  it  by  soul-force,  that  is  to  say,  by  non- 


236  ABDICATION 

cooperation.  **  The  moment  the  Englishmen  feel  that 
although  they  are  in  India  in  a  hopeless  minority, 
their  lives  are  protected  against  harm,  not  because  of 
the  matchless  weapons  of  destruction  which  are  at 
their  disposal,  but  because  Indians  refuse  to  take  the 
lives  even  of  those  whom  they  may  consider  to  be 
utterly  in  the  wrong,  that  moment  will  see  a  trans- 
formation in  the  EngHsh  nature  in  its  relation  to  India, 
and  that  moment  will  also  be  the  moment  when  all 
the  destructive  cutlery  that  is  to  be  had  in  India  will 
begin  to  rust."  That  is  Gandhiism  in  a  nutshell,  and 
the  Mahatma  in  his  infinite  optimism  believed  that  it 
would  be  digested  in  Gopalpura  and  understood  in 
Thompsonpur. 

The  difficult  thing  to  beHeve  was  that  the  Apostle  of 
Peace  was  innocent  of  the  incitement  to  carnage,  that 
he  did  not  foresee  the  inevitable  harvest  he  was  sowing. 

"  A  too  sophisticated  saint,  to  my  mind,"  was  Skene's 
judgment;  "  too  much  of  the  Jesuit  about  him." 

Skene  was  surprised  when  he  heard  that  Banarsi 
Das  had  seen  Gandhi  and  was  to  continue  his  work 
on  the  Gazette,  Banarsi  Das  wouldn't  disobey  the 
Mahatma;  his  decision  therefore  impHed  the  ponti- 
fical sanction  of  Riley.  But  Riley  was  soon  to  hand 
over.    Where  would  Banarsi  Das  stand  then? 

The  proprietors  of  the  Gazette  had  dispensed  with 
Riley's  services.  "  The  Dyer  Fund  was  the  last 
straw,"  Riley  explained  to  Skene.  "  In  a  day  or  two 
I  am  a  free  man." 

'*  And  only  the  other  day  the  Standard  called  you  a 
reactionary,"  Skene  said.  "  I  should  have  thought 
that  would  have  whitewashed  you  in  the  eyes  of  the 
proprietors." 

Riley  smiled.  "  Poor  old  proprietors !  Between 
them  they  haven't  got  the  imagination  of  a  louse." 


THE  MAHATMA  COMES  287 

"  Anyhow  you've  had  a  good  run  for  your  money, 
young  Riley ;  I  believe  you  have  convinced  Thompson- 
pur  that  Gandhi  is  straight.  Hill,  of  course,  still 
speaks  of  him  as  *  Riley's  unscrupulous  saint.'  " 

"  I  am  glad  I  stuck  to  the  ship  as  long  as  I  did," 
Riley  said.  "  Yes,  Gandhi's  all  right.  He  reminds 
me  of  Newman's  definition  of  a  gentleman." 

"Modest?  " 

"  Modest  and  unself -conscious.  He  denies  his  saint- 
liness.  'I  am  of  the  earth,  earthy/  he  says,  '  a 
common  garden  man.'  " 

"  His  saintliness  is  getting  a  little  inconvenient," 
Skene  said.  "  Barkatullah  and  his  crew  take  cover 
under  it  and  flourish  hke  the  green  bay-tree.  Why 
doesn't  he  cast  them  out?  " 

"  Gandhi  would  never  cast  anyone  out.  He  has 
too  much  faith  in  his  gospel  of  purification." 

"  Have  you  discovered  what  places  him  among  the 
Prophets?" 

"  I  have  been  trying  to  think  it  out,"  Riley  said. 
"  Sincerity.  Single-mindedness.  I  was  going  to  say 
simpUcity,  but  it  is  not  that.  In  some  ways  he  is  as 
wise  as  Macchiavelli.  I  think  his  secret  is  that  he  is  a 
visionary  void  of  self-deception;  Gandhi  does  not 
compromise, — at  least,  not  with  his  own  conscience. 
You  will  find  him  consistent  all  through.  Compare 
him  with  the  average  Godfearing  Briton.  The  EngHsh- 
man  loves  sport  but  he  is  tender-hearted.  So  he  says  : 
*  The  fox  likes  being  hunted.  Have  you  ever  seen 
old  Reynard  loping  along  behind  a  hedge  with  his 
tongue  in  his  cheek  when  he  has  given  the  hounds  the 
sUp?     Such  a  sly  old  boy,  and  so  game,  so  British.'  " 

Skene  laughed.  "  Of  course,"  he  said,  taking  up 
the  parable,  "  the  Indians  can't  run  their  own  show. 
All  this  agitation  is  fictitious.    They  reaUy  want  us 


238  ABDICATION 

here.  They  know  perfectly  well  that  if  we  went, 
somebody  else  would  come.  Besides,  they  would 
begin  cutting  each  other's  throats  to-morrow." 

"  The  trout  has  a  hard  mouth,"  Riley  continued. 
"  The  hook  doesn't  hurt  him.  The  worm  is  an  adven- 
turous beast.  We  will  give  him  the  opportunity  to 
explore  the  trout's  stomach." 

"  Don't  give  yourself  away,  old  man.  Where  did 
you  fish  for  trout  with  a  worm?  "  Skene  exploded. 

"  But  to  Gandhi  the  trout  and  the  worm  and  the 
fisherman  are  one.  He  says  it  is  sinful  to  take  life, 
and  he  abstains.  He  would  not  be  an  accomplice  in 
the  death  of  a  fly,  much  less  of  an  Englishman." 

"  Perhaps  he  does  not  want  to  take  life,"  Skene  said. 

"  There's  more  in  it  than  that.  The  Englishman 
can't  develop  Gandhi's  detachment,  because  he  has  a 
too  interested  sense  of  proportion." 

"  Do  you  think  Indians  are  more  disinterested  than 
we  are?  " 

"  No,  I  wouldn't  say  that.  Not  in  the  aggregate. 
I  don't  forget  Barkatullah  at  the  other  end  of  the 
scale." 

"  At  the  top  of  the  scale,  then?  " 

"  What  I  mean  is,"  Riley  explained,  "  all  the  world's 
seers  and  prophets  come  out  of  the  East.  It  is  easier 
to  be  born  undetached  in  Asia." 

"  Because  there  is  less  to  be  attached  to?  " 

"  Possibly." 

"  Our  greater  materialism,"  Skene  said,  "  only 
means  that  we  are  more  vital,  more  dynamic.  We 
are  more  everything.  If  it  came  to  the  measure  of 
spirituality,  you  would  probably  find  we  were  more 
spiritual  too,  certainly  more  moral." 

"  I  beheve  Gandhi  would  admit  that." 

"  I  have  been  reading  his  writings,"  Skene  observed. 


THE  MAHATMA  COMES  239 

*'  He  has  modelled  himself  on  the  Gospels  and  Tolstoy. 
Tolstoy  after  all  was  half  an  Oriental." 

"  I  was  discussing  him  with  Parkinson,"  Riley  said. 
"  The  Secretariat  would  discount  his  spirituaHty  on 
the  grounds  that  he  is  a  politician." 

"  Of  course  he  is  a  politician.  Was  there  ever  a 
Prophet  who  was  not  a  pohtician  ?  Take  Muhammad, 
the  most  astute  politician " 

"  That  was  Gandhi's  reply  to  the  scoffers.  '  Jesus/ 
he  said,  *  in  my  humble  opinion,  was  a  prince  among 
politicians.  He  did  render  unto  Caesar  the  things 
that  were  Caesar's.  The  politics  of  his  time  consisted 
in  securing  the  welfare  of  the  people  by  teaching 
them  not  to  be  seduced  by  the  trinkets  of  the  priests 
and  Pharisees.'  Gandhi  argues  that  the  system  of 
Government  is  so  devised  as  to  affect  every  depart- 
ment of  the  national  life.  '  If,  therefore,  we  want  to 
conserve  the  welfare  of  the  nation,  we  must  religiously 
interest  ourselves  in  the  doings  of  the  governors  and 
exert  a  moral  influence  on  them  by  insisting  on  them 
obeying  the  laws  of  moraUty.'  " 

'*  In  other  words,  he  hopes  to  civilise  us,"  Skene 
said,  smiling. 

"  Gandhi's  mission  is  to  conquer  the  greed  and  cruelty 
of  the  West  by  soul  force,"  Riley  explained;  "while 
ours,  if  we  are  to  believe  our  politicians,  is  to  devote 
ourselves  to  the  elevation  of  India's  backward  millions." 

"  And  the  conscientious  bureaucrat  is  ground 
between  the  upper  and  the  nether  millstone." 

"  Imagine  a  Martian  come  to  judgment,"  Riley 
suggested;  "some  supremely  wise,  detached  being 
with  no  bias  from  mundane  experience.  Which  would 
he  believe?  " 

"  I  think  his  sympathies  would  be  with  the  Ma- 
hatma,"  Skene  said. 


240  ABDICATION 

"  And  so  are  mine.  I  am  tired  of  our  battle  to 
elevate  one  another.  We've  got  the  machine-guns 
and  the  police  and  the  Acts  of  Parliament,  but  I  would 
give  Gandhi  a  free  field.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I 
don't    believe    Gopalpura    is    any    the    happier    for 

Thompsonpur "     Then,     after    a    pause,     "I'm 

packing,  old  Skene.  I  wasn't  built  to  civilise  any- 
body. Get  eight  months'  furlough  and  come  with 
me  to  Tibet." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  MEETING  IN  THE  SQUARE 

Months  after  Riley's  disappearance  from  Thompson- 
pur,  Barkatullah  was  still  at  large.  His  arrest  had 
been  imminent  at  the  time  of  Gandhi's  visit,  but 
conciliatory  counsels  had  prevailed,  though  one  looked 
in  vain  for  the  pacific  influence  of  the  Mahatma  in  the 
columns  of  the  Roshni.  The  public  utterances  of  the 
editor  were,  if  anything,  more  inflammatory  than  his 
Press.  Egan,  Riley's  successor,  made  a  point  of 
collecting  samples  of  the  venom  for  the  delectation  of 
readers  of  the  Gazette.  He  thought  it  politic  to  convict 
the  local  Extremist  out  of  his  own  mouth.  Barkatullah, 
of  course,  was  an  easy  prey,  and  deserved  all  he  got ; 
only  he  did  not  stop  at  Barkatullah.  Any  Indian 
who  did  not  see  what  Government  was  doing  for  him, 
or  what  a  hopeless  mess  he  would  make  of  his  own 
affairs,  if  left  to  himself,  was  fair  game.  Egan  could 
not  understand  why  the  Nationalist  did  not  love  the 
hand  that  chastened  him.  "  Sua  si  bona  norint "  was  his 
constant  theme ;  and  his  editorial  notes  had  a  racial  bite 
in  them  which  did  not  help  much  towards  the  entente. 

Nearly  every  day  he  crossed  swords  with  Chatterji. 
Anglo-India  chuckled,  but  did  not  see  the  Standard, 
which  generally  had  the  best  of  the  bout.  Old  Hobbs 
and  Bruce-Swinnerton  nodded  their  heads  in  approval. 
"  Egan  let  'em  have  it,"  in  the  manner  of  Willsdon  in 
the  good  old  days ;  he  didn't  mince  matters  and  wasn't 
R  241 


242  ABDICATION 

afraid  of  calling  a  spade  a  spade ;  not  like  that  finicking 
young  Riley,  who  thought  Gandhi  a  saint,  and  couldn't 
see  a  point  on  his  own  side.  A  six-of-one-and-half-a- 
dozen-of-the-other  sort  of  fellow.  Seemed  to  think 
the  junior  partner  had  as  much  right  to  run  the  firm 
as  the  boss.  Egan  had  his  head  screwed  on  the  right 
way.  Unfortunately  he  joined  the  Gazette  too  late  to 
open  a  subscription  for  General  Dyer. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  had  to  be  admitted  that  socially 
Egan  was  "  not  quite." 

Riley  had  disappeared  and  was  almost  forgotten  in 
Thompsonpur.  Dean  and  Wace-Holland  sometimes 
asked  Skene  for  news  of  him  at  the  club.  Skene  was 
not  very  communicative.  He  told  them  that  Riley 
was  in  Calcutta  working  in  some  hospital.  "  He  didn't 
say  much  about  himself,  but  it  looks  as  if  he  were 
going  to  practise  out  here." 

"  Riley  a  quack !  "  Hill  chuckled  at  this  new 
proof  of  "  young  Riley's  "  dementedness.  "  I  always 
said  he  was  mad.  If  he  wants  to  take  up  medicine, 
why  can't  he  go  to  a  London  hospital?  " 

It  was  generally  agreed  that  Riley,  as  a  journalist, 
had  missed  his  vocation. 

Wace-Holland  put  the  case  for  his  young  friend 
sympathetically.  "  He  saw  too  many  sides  of  a  case. 
That's  a  vice  in  journalism,  and  in  politics  kills  propa- 
ganda, though  I  rather  like  him  for  it.  He  was  an 
extraordinarily  gallant  soldier." 

Farquhar  demurred  that  he  had  always  found  Riley 
a  little  too  intense. 

'*  He  did  not  bear  fools  gladly,"  Wace-Holland 
reflected. 

Riley  was  missed  in  the  Gazette,  Egan  was  a  very 
different  type  of  Englishman.  The  tight-drawn  lines 
about  the  new  editor's  mouth  and  the  hair  brushed 


i 


THE  MEETING   IN  THE   SQUARE       243 

straight  up  above  his  forehead  frightened  Banarsi 
Das  at  their  first  encounter.  The  penthouse  brow 
with  no  reassuring  smile  beneath  it,  dismissed  at  once 
the  hope  of  a  genial  employer.  And  Banarsi  Das' 
instinct  was  true.  Egan  talked  to  him  as  if  he  had 
been  an  automatic  type-writing  machine.  He  missed 
Riley's  early  morning  smile  which  greeted  him  as  a 
trusted  coadjutor,  one  of  the  team.  Egan  was  un- 
responsive, never  commendatory,  though  forbearing 
and  considerate  out  of  principle.  He  tore  up  most  of 
Banarsi  Das'  manuscripts  and  never  explained  why. 
The  comforting  thing  about  Riley  was  that  he  often 
seemed  more  pleased  with  a  report  that  he  did  not 
use  than  with  one  which  he  published.  He  seemed 
interested  in  anything  that  was  at  the  back  of  Banarsi 
Das'  mind,  and  in  leisure  moments  would  draw  him 
out  and  even  commend  his  figures  of  speech.  Banarsi 
Das  deplored  the  gulf  between  literature  and  journalism 
when  he  was  told  that  his  language  was  too  flowery  for 
the  Gazette. 

Riley  would  never  have  insisted  upon  Banarsi  Das 
going  to  hear  BarkatuUah,  The  possibility  of  having 
to  attend  a  political  meeting  was  a  nightmare  to  Banarsi 
Das.  Jemal  Khan  and  his  associates  might  be  there; 
a  note-book  in  anyone's  hands  would  be  provocative, 
in  Banarsi  Das'  it  would  be  damning.  A  G.I.D.  man 
who  had  been  discovered  with  one  at  a  Khilafat 
meeting,  had  been  lynched.  So  far  Banarsi  Das  had 
escaped.  Egan  had  made  him  a  kind  of  understudy 
to  the  kindly,  competent  matter-of-fact  Gopal  Chand, 
who  attended  all  the  big  political  meetings  and  reported 
speeches  in  the  vernacular.  This  left  Banarsi  Das 
very  little  to  do,  until  Egan,  who  was  dissatisfied  with 
his  proof-reading,  insisted  that  he  should  go  every- 
where with  Gopal  Chand.     "  The  youth  is  a  shirker," 


244  ABDICATION 

he  explained  to  Skene  when  he  asked  how  his  protege 
was  getting  on;  "he  doesn't  pull  his  weight.  He 
ought  to  be  grateful  for  the  apprenticeship." 

Banarsi  Das,  of  course,  ought  to  have  been  grateful, 
but  he  was  not,  and  when  Egan  curtly  refused  to  listen 
to  his  pleadings  he  sat  down  and  "  penned  "  a  porten- 
tous resignation.  It  was  in  twentj^-nine  paragraphs, 
modelled  on  the  style  of  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson,  balanced 
and  antithetical.  The  figurative  embroidery  derived 
from  a  later  date  provided  the  solace  of  a  narcotic 
during  the  period  of  composition.  One  of  the  reasons 
why  he  found  it  difficult  to  continue  his  "  admittedly 
learned  and  ostentatiously  laborious  " — Banarsi  Das 
meant  that  it  ought  to  be  clear  that  he  had  taken 
pains — "  lucubrations  in  the  Gazette,  was  the  sad,  not 
to  say  reactionary  and  degenerate,  tone  of  that  journal, 
which  was  now  hastening  with  rapidity  of  meteor — 
or  was  it  meteorological  rapidity? — to  its  political 
nadir."  In  the  end  it  was  delicately  insinuated  that 
the  junior  vernacular  reporter  scorned  to  dip  his  pen 
"  in  the  ink  of  anti-climax." 

He  showed  the  finished  document  to  Gopal  Ghand. 

*'  But  what  are  you  going  to  do,  Banarsi  Das,  if  you 
leave  the  Gazette}  "  Gopal  Ghand  asked  him. 

Banarsi  Das  had  nothing  to  do.     He  was  again  adrift. 

"  Tear  it  up,  Banarsi  Das.  Gome  with  me  to  the 
meetings.     You  will  see,  you  will  be  all  right." 

After  a  httle  persuasion  Banarsi  Das  said  that  he 
would  sleep  on  the  horns  of  the  dilemma.  He  slept 
on  them  many  nights.  The  resignation  was  not 
submitted  to  Mr.  Egan ;  neither  was  it  destroyed. 

When  it  was  announced  that  a  monster  Khilafat 
meeting  was  to  be  held  at  Gopalpura  after  Friday 
prayers,  Banarsi  Das  was  in  great  distress.  On  the 
Wednesday  night  he  was  impaled  first  on  one  horn, 


THE  MEETING  IN  THE   SQUARE      245 

then  on  the  other,  of  the  bovine  beast  of  his  imaginings. 
Sleep  was  impossible.  On  Thursday  morning  he  was 
perilously  near  sending  in  the  resignation.  But  Gopal 
Chand  again  intervened.  "  Come  with  me,"  he  said, 
"  I  will  get  Tilok  Ram  and  Har  Prasad  to  join  us.' 

"  Tilok  Ram  is  a  very  corpulent  gentleman,  no 
doubt,"  Banarsi  Das  remarked  after  a  little  reflection. 

Gopal  Chand  looked  puzzled  He  did  not  under- 
stand that  Banarsi  Das  was  calculating  the  precise 
amount  of  cover  afforded  by  Tilok  Ram's  person.  He 
was  thinking  of  the  niche  between  the  coping  of  the 
wall  and  the  chahontra  of  the  peepul-tree  into  which  he 
had  been  squeezed  by  the  pious  crowd  when  he  waited 
for  the  Mahatma.  Barkatullah  was  to  address  the 
multitude  from  the  steps  of  Amir  Khan's  mosque. 

Banarsi  Das  explained  to  Gopal  Chand  the  strategical 
advantages  of  the  position.  "  If  we  went  very  early," 
he  said,  "  and  Tilok  Ram  stood  in  front  of  me,  and 
you  and  Har  Prasad  on  each  side  of  Tilok  Ram,  I 
might  escape  notice." 

The  meeting  was  to  be  held  after  prayers  in  the 
mosque,  but  Banarsi  Das  would  have  had  his  friends  in 
position  at  dawn.  Gopal  Chand  good-naturedly  de- 
murred. "  Tilok  Ram  would  not  come,"  he  said. 
"  Let  us  go  at  ten,  Banarsi  Das,  you  will  meet  nobody 
on  the  road  at  that  time."  And  Banarsi  Das,  reflecting 
that  Tilok  Ram,  so  far  as  his  purpose  was  served,  was 
worth  the  other  two,  agreed. 

They  were  all  three  late  of  course,  and  on  the  way 
to  the  city  Banarsi  Das  was  afraid  that  his  coign  of 
vantage  would  be  taken.  When  they  reached  the 
square,  however,  they  found  it  filling;  the  crowd  was 
still  fluid  and  the  niche  accessible.  It  was  a  very 
different  crowd  to  that  which  had  awaited  Gandhi. 
Banarsi  Das^^saw  a  frankified  youth,  who  ignorantly 


246  ABDICATION 

flaunted  an  English  tie  and  collar,  rough-handled  and 
stripped  of  them.  He  was  glad  of  the  obesity  and 
opacity  of  Tilok  Ram.  The  feeling  grew  on  him  that 
he  was  trapped  and  surrounded  by  his  enemies,  who 
must  in  the  end  spy  him  out.  He  asked  himself 
miserably  why  he  had  come.  The  square  with  all  its 
unhappy  associations,  overlooked  by  the  windows  of 
the  Roshni  ofhce,  and  shadowed  by  the  minarets  of  the 
mosque  under  which  he  had  been  inducted  by  the 
Khilafat  workers,  had  become  a  place  of  expiation. 
It  was  a  stage  on  which  he  was  a  hunted  victim.  Why 
had  he  returned  to  it  against  his  warning  instincts? 
Crouching  behind  Tilok  Ram,  he  recalled  earlier  fore- 
bodings until  he  was  convinced  that  his  return  was 
ordained.  The  stage  had  been  designed  for  him  from 
the  beginning  and  was  prepared  for  his  last  exit.  This 
was  the  work  of  the  supreme  architect,  the  arbiter  of 
being  and  not  being.  The  square  was  haunted  now 
by  the  spectres  of  the  Shinwari  and  Jemal  Khan. 
He  saw  himself  dangling  by  a  rope  from  the  peepul- 
tree.     The  rope  was  cut  and  his  body  fell  into  the  well. 

The  first  speaker  had  come  out  of  the  mosque  on 
to  the  steps.  There  was  a  stir  in  the  square,  a  rustle 
of  subdued  excitement.  "  Who  is  it  ?  "  Banarsi  Das 
asked  Gopal  Chand.  He  knew  it  was  not  BarkatuUah — 
Barkatullah  was  a  practised  demagogue,  master  of  the 
homely  phrase  "  one  of  the  people."  He  would  be 
greeted  with  noisy  irreverent  shouts,  the  applause  of  a 
mob  with  an  appetite  for  sensation.  This  awed 
murmur  in  the  square  was  evoked  by  reverence. 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  Banarsi  Das  asked  Gopal  Chand  again. 

Gopal  Chand  bent  down  over  him  and  whispered, 
"  It  is  Bulbul." 

Banarsi  Das  shrank  deeper  into  his  niche.  The  clear 
bell-like  voice  of  the  Wahabi  rang  out  in  the  square. 


THE   MEETING   IN   THE   SQUARE       247 

"  Muhammad  is  the  preface  to  the  book  of  the 
Universe ;  all  the  world  are  slaves  and  he  is  the  master. 
Moslems,  break  the  chain  of  bondage  that  is  round  your 
weak  necks  with  the  strength  of  your  religion  and  the 
sharp  edge  of  your  faith,  so  that  you  may  become 
masters  of  the  rights  of  your  existence.  Were  you  not 
once  conquerors?  Your  holy  places  are  now  in  the 
hands  of  Christians  and  Jews.  Your  Khalifa  is  an 
outcast,  a  captive  among  the  unbelievers,  brought  to 
shame.  Crosses  are  hung  in  the  mosques  and  Christ 
and  Mary  are  being  worshipped  in  them.  The  Moslems 
of  the  whole  world  are  part  of  the  same  body.  If 
any  part  is  hurt  all  feel  it.  Islam  is  in  danger;  its 
garden  is  being  despoiled.  Moslems  awake  from  your 
sleep.  Hold  fast  to  the  rope  of  Allah  unitedly.  Other- 
wise how  can  you  stand  unashamed  before  God  ? 

"  Are  you  content  with  your  bondage  and  humility? 
Have  you  submitted  your  necks  forever  to  the  yoke  of 
the  infidel  ?  Fie  upon  you  if  you  help  not  the  cause  of 
the  Khilafat.  Is  it  that  you  hope  that  by  becoming 
Christians  you  may  be  spared?  Have  you  fear  that 
otherwise  you  will  be  disgraced  and  brought  low? 
Shame  has  already  fallen  upon  you.  Raise  up  your 
heads  and  cast  aside  impotence,  or  in  a  year  or  two  you 
will  be  compelled  to  believe  in  the  Trinity.  So  far  you 
have  been  spared  on  account  of  one  Islamic  Power — 
the  Turkish  Empire — but  the  Khilafat  which  you 
helped  to  destroy  cannot  help  you  now.  It  was  the 
Muhammadans  alone  who,  siding  with  the  British, 
were  shameless  enough  to  fire  upon  the  mausoleum  of 
the  Prophet.  The  wrath  of  God  is  the  result  of  this. 
You  are  doomed.  The  only  atonement  you  can  make 
is  to  pray  for  God's  forgiveness.  When  the  conscious- 
ness of  shame  returns  to  your  hearts,  ye  may  once  more 
be  conquerors. 


248  ABDICATION 

"  In  the  Jallianwala  Bagh  the  white-skinned  devils 
bayoneted  newly-born  children.  Remember  how  your 
mothers  and  sisters  were  dishonoured,  unveiled  and 
spat  upon ;  how  your  brothers  were  made  to  crawl  on 
their  beUies  in  the  dust.  Will  any  of  you  uphold 
their  honour?  '' 

Here  Jemal  Khan,  who  was  sitting  under  the  steps 
of  the  mosque,  leapt  up  and  declared  that  he  was  ready 
for  immediate  sacrifice.  Niaz  Ali  and  Zahur  Muham- 
mad, his  companions  in  the  Hijrat,  sprang  up  at  his 
side.  A  student  of  Thompsonpur  College  threw  off 
his  English  cap  and  swore  that  he  would  join  the  Army 
of  God. 

The  Bulbul  called  for  all  caps  of  foreign  make, 
badges  of  servitude,  to  be  surrendered.  At  least  fifty 
were  thrown  to  him.  These  were  collected  in  a  heap 
and  burnt.  Frenzied  shouts  acclaimed  the  blaze.  As 
the  flame  died  away,  the  Bulbul  lifted  his  hand  and 
stayed  the  clamour.  There  was  something  godhke  in 
the  gesture.  The  multitude  were  silent.  In  the 
stillness  that  followed  he  exclaimed,  "  This  signifies 
that  ye  will  give  your  heads  if  called  upon."  He 
spoke  softly,  but  every  word  was  audible,  and  his 
voice,  like  the  muezzin's  call  to  prayer,  rang  with 
such  conviction  that  it  was  felt  that  Islam  was  vindi- 
cated. The  die  had  been  cast  on  the  steps  of  Amir 
Khan's  mosque.     The  issue  hereafter  was  certain. 

"  Are  any  of  you  wilHng  to  sacrifice  your  Uves  for 
the  Motherland?  " 

"  We  are  ready." 

**  Is  there  one  among  you  who  is  ready  to  pour  out  his 
life's  blood  for  the  Khilafat,  the  Vice-royalty  of  God  ?  " 

All  cried  out  that  they  were  ready. 

*'  Two  roads  only  are  open  for  you  to  pursue.  On 
one  is  heard  the  chinking  of  handcuffs,  the  tread  of 


THE  MEETING  IN  THE  SQUARE      249 

jailers,  the  rattle  of  the  planks  of  the  scaffold;  on  the 
other  is  heard  the  acclamations  bestowed  by  selfish 
and  worldly  men  on  the  rich,  the  title-holders,  syco- 
phants, slavish  minds,  betrayers  of  their  country  and 
their  Faith.     Which  road  will  ye  pursue?  " 

He  paused,  waiting  for  the  answer  of  the  multitude. 
They  shouted  with  one  voice,  "  We  will  pursue  the 
first  road." 

"  At  the  end  of  the  first  road  the  Holy  Prophet  is 
waiting  to  receive  you,  and  the  blessed  martyrs 
Hazrat,  Umar,  Usman,  and  Hussain.  At  the  end  of 
the  second  road  stand  Sir  Michael  O'Dwyer  and 
General  Dyer,  wine-bibbing,  bacon-fed  EngHshmen, 
murderers  of  your  countrymen,  with  gifts  in  their 
hands.    Which  road  will  ye  pursue?  " 

From  the  courtyard,  the  square,  the  walls  of  the 
mosque  and  the  roofs  of  the  adjoining  houses  there 
went  up  a  roar  of  acclamation.  With  one  voice  the 
faithful  signified  which  road  they  would  pursue. 

"  God  has  bestowed  His  faith  on  me.  You  can  do 
everything  if  only  one-thousandth  part  of  my  faith  is 
in  you.  When  the  enemies  of  the  Prophet  were 
pressing  him  hard  and  his  life  was  in  danger,  he  was 
directed  by  God  to  leave  Mecca.  He  did  so  and  went 
to  Medina.  The  time  has  now  come  for  you  to  leave 
India  and  go  to  Afghanistan.  The  Amir  has  opened 
the  door  of  his  country  to  you.  God  loves  a  red  colour. 
The  sun  and  moon  are  red.  So  is  blood.  God  loves 
him  who  has  a  red  scarf  round  his  neck  and  a  red  face. 
Shave  not  your  beards.  Keep  them  because  those 
who  wear  them  are  coming.  Wear  big  shalwars 
because  they  are  clad  in  them.  When  you  return 
you  will  return  with  God's  chosen,  the  upholders  of 
the  Faith.  I  do  not  preach  Jehad  this  day.  The 
hour  has  not  yet  come " 


250  ABDICATION 

Here  Jemal  Khan  cried  out,  "  Nay,  the  hour  has 
come." 

"  Ask  not,  '  How  shall  we  go,  and  whither  and  how 
shall  it  be  permitted  ?  '  All  such  thoughts  are  wrong. 
Do  but  make  ready;  the  Almighty  God  will  provide. 
Perhaps  you  may  never  reach  your  goal,  but  fall  on 
the  way.  If  so,  be  content.  In  Kabul  three  million 
men  are  required.  But  go  not  in  the  thought  that 
you  will  there  eat  grapes  and  melons  and  fat  rice. 
Go  rather  with  the  purpose  of  returning  to  this  land 
with  the  people  of  Afghanistan  in  victory.  Hold  up 
the  Khilafat,  that  your  very  existence  be  not  jeopar- 
dised. It  were  better  that  ye  were  dead  than  suffered 
to  dwell  in  shame." 

In  the  murmur  that  rose  in  the  square  after  the 
Wahabi's  oration,  Banarsi  Das  repeated  to  himself 
the  only  words  in  it  from  which  he  could  draw  any 
comfort :  "  The  time  has  not  yet  come."  He  prayed 
that  it  might  not  come.  Other  Hindus  by  the  wall 
shook  their  heads.  They  did  not  like  the  passage 
about  the  shalwars  and  the  red  scarves  and  the  colour 
of  blood  and  the  beards  of  the  tribesmen.  The  Bulbul 
was  not  a  politician.  "  Nothing  so  fiery  has  yet  been 
heard,"  they  said.  And  they  asked,  "  How  did  he 
come  ?  How  will  he  make  his  escape  ?  Is  he  not  the 
forerunner  of  the  Afghans?  Are  the  police  sleeping? 
Is  the  Sircar  afraid?  "  And  Banarsi  Das  felt  his 
hairless  chin.  He  had  taken  no  notes;  he  was  too 
paralysed  with  fear.  He  thought  only  of  escape. 
How  long  would  it  take  for  the  crowd  to  disperse? 
Would  Gopal  Chand  and  the  others  stand  over  him  ? 
What  witness-bearers  might  he  not  encounter  on  the 
way  back  to  the  Gazette? 

After  the  Prophet — the  politician.     That  the  time 


THE  MEETING  IN  THE  SQUARE      251 

had  not  yet  come,  was  the  note  of  Barkatullah,  who 
followed  the  Bulbul. 

"  I  am  stirred  to  rebellion,"  he  began.  "  I  come  of 
a  martial  race  " — his  father  was  an  Accounts  Clerk  in 
the  Supply  and  Transport  Corps — "  but  the  order  has 
been  issued  by  Mahatma  Gandhi,  whom  all  respect, 
*  Swaraj  by  non-violence.'  Therefore  I  stay  my 
hand.  There  are  Muhammadans  among  you  who 
have  helped  to  destroy  the  Vice-royalty  of  God  for 
eleven  rupees  a  month.  Now,  when  their  own  religion 
is  being  destroyed  by  the  infidel  whom  they  protected, 
they  are  bidden  to  sheathe  the  sword." 

"  Nay,  we  will  unsheathe  it." 

"  Nay,  there  must  be  no  violence.  Mahatma 
Gandhi  is  our  leader  and  he  is  a  holy  man." 

Barkatullah  turned  to  a  group  of  demobilised  Moslem 
sepoys,  who  had  been  staged  at  the  foot  of  the  steps. 

"  Did  they  think  they  would  fill  their  beUies  by 
wielding  the  sword  against  Islam?  Verily  they  will 
be  torn  up  before  God  after  death." 

"  Nay,  they  are  brave  men  and  have  been  deceived," 
Jemal  Khan  interrupted.  "  They  will  destroy  the 
destroyers  and  so  receive  the  forgiveness  of  God." 

But  the  politician  rebuked  him.  "  The  time  for 
violence  is  not  yet,"  he  said;  "we  must  bare  our 
chests  to  bullets  and  our  necks  to  the  yoke.  The 
war  against  the  infidel  must  be  won  by  submission." 

He  pointed  to  the  sepoys.  "  See  how  the  Kafirs  have 
rewarded  them,"  he  cried.  "  They  have  been  given 
horse-flesh  to  eat,  and  they  have  drunk  dung- water." 

Here  a  thin,  consumptive-looking  sepoy  in  a  torn 
khaki  shirt,  with  no  coat  or  boots,  and  an  empty  sleeve 
hanging  loose,  was  pushed  forward,  limping  in  front 
of  Barkatullah. 


252  ABDICATION 

"  And  now  what  dog's  treatment  do  they  receive? 
Their  land  lies  fallow;  their  cattle  are  sold,  after  a 
winter  without  rain.     How  will  they  pass  their  days  ?  " 

He  pointed  contemptuously  at  the  forlorn  and 
contrite  figure  standing  before  him  on  the  steps  of 
the  mosque.  Such  was  the  fallen  condition  of  Moslem 
chivalry  after  the  war  of  irreligion. 

"  What  true  Muhammadan  soldier  can  join  the 
army  of  infidels?  "  he  demanded.  And  he  repeated 
the  story  of  the  Mussalman  who  fell  at  Ctesiphon, 
and  whose  face  became  as  the  snout  of  a  pig. 

"  Behold  the  reward  that  is  meted  out  to  you  in 
this  world  for  slaying  your  Muhammadan  brother, 
for  which  you  will  assuredly  burn  in  hell !  How  has 
the  Kafir  Government  welcomed  you  home?  Each 
sepoy  when  he  returns  is  discharged  and  cast  adrift. 
The  Sircar  takes  from  him  his  warm  coat.  Even  his 
boots  are  taken  off  his  feet,  and  his  body  is  searched 
like  a  thief's  lest  a  single  cartridge  may  be  concealed 
on  his  person." 

Barkatullah  paused  as  if  overcome  by  emotion. 
"  The  Kafirs  were  not  miserly  with  their  ammunition 
in  Iraq  and  Palestine,"  he  continued.  "  Was  it  not 
carried  in  carts  and  handed  to  you  rapidly  that  you 
might  slay  your  brave  brothers;  while  the  English 
remained  in  Baghdad  and  Jerusalem,  gorging  bacon, 
swilhng  wine,  defiling  the  House  of  God,  and  violating 
Moslem  women?  Now  they  grudge  you  a  single 
cartridge.  And  why  do  they  grudge  it  ?  "  He  paused 
again.  "  They  grudge  it  because  they  are  afraid. 
The  Kafirs  fear  the  vengeance  of  Islam.  The  killing 
of  the  enemies  of  the  Prophet  is  a  virtue.  But  are 
we  not  pledged  to  non-violence?  " 

An  angry  howl  vibrated  through  the  square.  Another 
khaki-clad  figure,  a  mere  lad,  was  detached  from  the 


THE  MEETING  IN  THE  SQUARE      253 

group  and  thrust  forward,  weeping  hysterically.  He 
threw  himself  at  Barkatullah's  feet  crying  :  "It  was 
I  who  was  the  cause  of  my  brother's  death.  And 
now  as  a  reward  thereof,  the  Kafir  may  wipe  my 
existence  off  the  face  of  the  earth  and  bury  his  weapon 
in  my  loyal  heart.  Let  my  sin  as  a  Moslem  be  atoned 
thereby." 

Barkatullah  raised  him  to  his  feet  beside  the  other 
penitent  in  the  centre  of  the  stage. 

"  Assuredly  this  young  man  is  the  dupe  of  the 
infidel,"  he  cried.  "  His  sin  is  beyond  atonement. 
He  is  already  damned.  These  wrongs  stir  in  me 
feelings  of  rebellion  and  revenge,  but  Mahatma  Gandhi 
has  forbidden  vengeance.  We  must  submit  our  necks. 
The  Mahatma  is  a  holy  man." 

Banarsi  Das  quailed  in  his  comer  out  of  sight. 
He  could  only  see  backs  and  feet,  but  he  could  imagine 
that  the  eyes  of  the  Moslems  were  red  and  that  their 
hands  itched  for  violence.  He  could  hear  the  sobbing 
of  a  man  of  strong  lungs  the  other  side  of  the  well. 

Barkatullah  knew  that  he  had  Islam  straining  at 
the  leash.  Of  the  Hindus  he  was  not  so  sure.  The 
Bulbul  had  neglected  them;  in  his  Islamic  zeal  he 
had  forgotten  the  entente. 

"  Do  not  the  Kafirs  fear  the  vengeance  of  Islam?  " 
he  continued.  "  Have  they  not  tricked  the  simple 
Mussalman  ?  And  well  may  they  fear  it.  Formerly 
they  separated  us  from  our  Hindu  brethren.  Had  we 
united  in  the  past  no  third  nation  could  have  ruled 
over  us;  but  being  separated,  our  condition  became 
that  of  the  donkeys  of  a  potter,  who  drives  them  by 
beating  and  does  not  give  them  chaff  to  eat,  but 
leaves  them  on  a  dunghill  to  graze.  Now  we  are  one 
people;  the  mosque  and  the  temple  are  one.  Allahu 
Akbar  and  Om  are  one  name.     Gandhi  and  Shradha- 


254  ABDICATION 

nand  have  offered  their  lives  for  the  Khilafat.  Blood 
has  cemented  the  two  communities  in  indissoluble 
bonds.  You  are  unarmed,  but  without  arms  you 
shall  overwhelm  them.  The  Kafirs  are  so  few  that  if 
every  Indian  were  to  collect  a  handful  of  dust  and 
throw  it  at  them  they  would  be  buried  under  a  mountain 
of  hate." 

Barkatullah  paused,  and,  smiling  sadly,  dropped  his 
uplifted  hands  to  his  side. 

"  But  Mahatma  Gandhi  has  forbidden  you  to  employ 
violence.  Freedom  is  not  now  to  be  obtained  by  the 
sword  or  the  gun,  but  by  resignation." 

He  turned  from  the  Khilafat  to  Amritsar  and  the 
Jallianwala  Bagh.  This  was  ground  that  touched  the 
Hindus  more  nearly. 

"  According  to  the  Shastras,"  he  said,  "  every  man 
has  three  mothers  :  his  own  mother,  the  mother  cow, 
and  the  motherland.  The  first  mother  the  English 
have  outraged;  the  second  they  are  murdering;  the 
third  they  have  already  murdered.  The  first  they 
have  outraged,"  he  repeated;  "the  veils  were  torn 
from  your  sisters,  whose  faces  had  never  been  bared 
to  the  sun.  When  they  heard  this  all  patriots  were 
bent  upon  rebellion,  but  Mahatma  Gandhi  has  taught 
us  to  obtain  Swaraj  by  quiet  and  orderly  means." 

Jemal  Khan  rose  up  from  the  audience  and  cried, 
"  Tell  me,  whom  shall  I  kill?  I  cannot  bear  to  think 
the  wrongs  of  our  sisters  are  unavenged." 

Barkatullah  rebuked  him.  "  There  must  be  no 
stirrings  of  revenge  in  your  hearts,"  he  said.  "  Were 
not  our  brothers  made  to  crawl  on  their  bellies  like 
snakes  in  the  dust,  so  that  every  Indian  is  branded 
with  shame?  " 

There  was  a  surging  in  the  crowd  towards  the  west 
end  of  the  square. 


THE  MEETING  IN  THE  SQUARE      255 

"  The  spirit  of  your  ancestors  stirs  in  you,"  Barka- 
tullah  cried  out,  "  but  you  must  suffer  and  not  act." 

"  Nay,  we  will  act." 

"  Mahatma  Gandhi "     But  Barkatullah's  voice 

was  drowned  in  cries  of  "  Allahu  Akbar,"  "  Hindu- 
Mussalman-ki-jai,"    "  Mahatma   Gandhi-ki-jai." 

Banarsi  Das  realised  that  the  crowd  were  moving 
in  a  solid  mass  on  Thompsonpur.  He  feared  murder 
and  havoc.  Most  of  them  carried  heavy  iron-studded 
sticks.  He  raised  himself  on  his  feet  to  drop  the 
notebook,  in  which  he  had  not  written  a  word,  over  the 
coping  of  the  well.  Looking  over  Gopal  Chand's 
shoulder,  he  saw  Barkatullah  slinking  like  a  fox  along 
the  wall  of  the  mosque  in  the  opposite  direction  to 
the  crowd.  He  crouched  down  again  and  implored 
Gopal  Chand  to  come  in  nearer  to  the  wall  and  stand 
over  him  so  that  he  might  be  completely  hidden.  Tilok 
Ram  and  Har  Prasad  had  melted  away  in  the  confusion. 

All  the  riffraff  of  the  city  were  streaming  past  into 
Hari  Mandi  towards  the  Baradari  Gate.  There  was 
nothing  English  in  the  square  by  Amir  Khan's  mosque 
for  them  to  destroy,  only  a  pith  helmet  which  a 
frightened  Eurasian  had  discarded  and  dropped  surrep- 
titiously at  his  feet.  Banarsi  Das  had  a  glimpse  of  it, 
carried  aloft  ironically  on  a  pole,  crushed  and  battered, 
as  the  head  it  had  covered  might  have  been  crushed 
but  for  its  timely  rejection.  The  suggestive  inference 
was  seized  by  the  mob — a  chapter-heading  in  the  book 
of  hate.  A  battered  Feringhi  topi,  at  once  a  symbol 
and  a  sanction.  They  pictured  the  brain-pan  under 
it,  insensate  pulp,  left  on  the  road  somewhere,  nosed 
by  dogs  in  the  gutter.  The  empty  topi,  associated 
with  arrogance,  jerked  and  bobbed  ignominiously  over 
their  heads.  The  rim  was  torn,  the  crown  was  bashed 
in;    the  futile  relic  twitching  on  the  pole  was  more 


256  ABDICATION 

diabolically  eloquent  than  Barkatullah.  Once  it  had 
masked  superciliousness,  but  that  had  been  clearly  a 
mirage.  The  bogey  was  now  exposed,  divested  of 
respect;  to  some,  laughable  and  pathetic;  to  others, 
quickening  the  appetite  for  blood.  Thus  are  hounds 
fleshed.  The  hat  awakened  an  ecstatic  lust  in  Jemal 
Khan.  In  others,  listless  and  indifferent,  who  had 
been  quite  content  with  things  as  they  are,  it  discovered 
unsuspected  emotions.  They  foresaw  daily  parades  of 
disjected  topis,  and  began  to  calculate  how  the  elimina- 
tion of  the  heads  that  had  filled  them  might  effect 
their  lives. 

To  Banarsi  Das  the  parade  of  the  topi  was  terrifying. 
In  the  eyes  of  these  fanatics  he  was  a  betrayer,  worse 
than  an  Englishman.  He  clutched  at  Gopal  Chand's 
legs.  The  two  were  alone  now  by  the  well.  "  Come 
in  closer.  Stand  over  me,"  he  panted.  But  Gopal 
Chand  alone  could  not  hide  him.  "  Come  away, 
Banarsi  Das,"  he  said ;  "  you  will  be  safer  in  the  crowd. 
You  will  draw  attention  here,  trying  to  hide.  The 
square  will  not  be  empty  till  dark." 

"  They  wiU  kill  me." 

"  No,  you  will  be  safer  in  the  crowd." 

*'  What  are  they  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  Murder  Europeans.  They  are  in  the  mood.  I 
heard  one  of  them  say  that  they  would  burn  the 
cathedral.     Is  Mr.  Egan  in  the  Gazette  ?  " 

Cries  of  "  Hai  Hai,  Topi-walla  !  Mahatma  Gandhi- 
ki-jai,"  marked  the  progress  of  the  pole  and  its  hatch- 
ment in  the  direction  of  Thompsonpur.  The  scum  of 
Gopalpura  were  invoking  carnage  in  the  name  of  the 
Apostle  of  Peace. 

Banarsi  Das  refused  to  budge  from  his  niche. 
"  Cover  my  head,"  he  said;  "  if  anyone  asks  who  I 
am,  say  I  am  sick." 


THE  MEETING  IN  THE  SQUARE      257 

Gopal  Chand  hesitated.  The  square  was  emptying 
fast.  Groups  of  two  or  three  were  running  in  the 
direction  of  Hari  Mandi. 

"  Stay  with  me,"  Banarsi  Das  pleaded.  "  The 
troops  will  be  called  out,  and  there  will  be  a  battle. 
If  we  go  with  the  crowd  we  will  be  shot  by  the  Enghsh 
soldiers."  But  it  was  not  of  the  English  he  was 
afraid. 

Gopal  Chand  saw  the  wisdom  of  this.  Certainly 
there  would  be  firing.  He  suggested  that  they  should 
go  the  other  way,  against  the  current  into  the  city. 
Jemal  Khan  and  Banarsi  Das'  other  enemies  would  be 
with  the  rioters  in  Thompsonpur.  They  might  be 
killed  or  arrested. 

This  was  counsel  of  hope.  Banarsi  Das  accepted 
the  compromise.  He  agreed  to  go  with  Gopal  Chand 
into  the  city.  They  might  hide  somewhere.  The 
enemy's  camp,  now  it  was  deserted,  was  safer  than 
the  battle-field.  They  could  wait  in  the  house  of  a 
friend  until  it  was  dark.  Then  they  could  leave  the 
city  by  another  gate,  cross  the  railway  and  work  back 
by  the  brick-kilns  to  Thompsonpur.  '*  That  is — eef 
the  battle  is  finished,"  he  added.  He  thought  of  his 
quarters  in  the  Gazette  as  his  last  asylum.  What  if 
the  revolutionists  were  already  in  possession? 

Banarsi  Das  rose  stiffly,  straightened  his  cramped 
limbs,  and  followed  Gopal  Chand  into  Sheikh  Afzal's 
bazar,  away  from  the  din  that  was  growing  more 
insistent  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Baradari  Gate, 
like  the  roar  of  the  Mohurrum.  The  city  had  not  yet 
emptied  itself  and  they  were  opposed  to  the  current 
flowing  west.  The  danger  seemed  past  for  the  moment. 
No  one  regarded  them.  The  folk  who  were  left 
behind  appeared  dazed  and  frightened.  Some  of  the 
shopkeepers  were  closing  down  their  shutters.    They 


258  ABDICATION 

feared  loot.  There  were  amazing  stories  abroad. 
The  Muhammadans  of  a  class-company  regiment  in 
Thompsonpur  had  mutinied  and  killed  their  officers; 
the  police  had  melted  away  before  the  mob,  and  were 
in  hiding;  Scriven's,  the  gunsmith's,  had  been  broken 
into,  and  the  arms  and  ammunition  distributed  among 
the  rioters;  Queen  Victoria's  statue  had  been  broken 
in  half;  the  house  of  every  G.I.D.  subordinate  had 
been  burnt  to  the  ground.  Barkatullah  was  leading 
the  mob;  by  seven  o'clock  there  would  not  be  an 
Englishman  left  ahve  in  Thompsonpur. 

The  suckling  Rumour,  which  Riley  had  visuaHsed 
eighteen  months  earlier  when  he  rode  through  Sheikh 
Afzal's  bazar  during  the  hartal,  was  now  the  monster 
that  he  had  predicted.  Banarsi  Das  Hstened  to  all 
the  dreadful  things  he  heard,  shouted  or  whispered. 
He  did  not  exactly  beHeve  or  disbelieve  them,  only 
they  left  pictures  in  his  mind  as  vivid  as  truth. 

Gopal  Chand  kept  his  head.  "  There  can  be  no 
foundation  to  these  stories,"  he  explained,  with  the 
logic  of  the  experienced  reporter.  "It  is  not  much 
more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  since  Barkatullah 
finished  his  speech.  They  can  have  hardly  reached 
the  Baradari  Gate  yet.  It  is  impossible  that  they  can 
have  done  any  damage  in  Thompsonpur." 

Banarsi  Das  hstened  indifferently.  He  did  not 
much  care  whether  the  stories  were  true  or  not.  Some- 
how he  was  less  frightened  than  he  had  been,  though 
infinitely  more  mazed.  He  remembered  the  hour  on 
the  raft  on  the  Indus  when  the  dawn  broke  over  the 
mountains.  His  spirit  was  chilled,  but  he  had  left 
behind  fear.  It  was  as  if  the  roof  of  the  sky  had  fallen 
in  and  was  smothering  him  softly  in  billowy  cloud. 

"  You  need  not  be  afraid,  Banarsi  Das,"  Gopal 
Chand  continued.     "  If  the  police  cannot  cope  with  a 


THE  MEETING  IN  THE  SQUARE       259 

disorganised  mob,  the  troops  will  be  called  in.  A 
small  detachment  of  British  soldiers " 

But  Banarsi  Das  floated  through  Sheikh  Afzal's 
bazar  in  dreamy  inattention.  Gopal  Chand  was  being 
reasonable,  and  reason  in  the  face  of  the  inexorable 
was  no  more  helpful  than  rumour.  It  might  help  if 
the  gods  were  reasonable,  but  they  were  not,  or  if  they 
were,  their  reason  was  hidden.  He  was  more  numbed 
than  frightened.  Since  he  left  the  square  his  presenti- 
ment that  the  sky  was  falling  in  had  deepened  into 
something  like  a  conviction.  "  Whatever  happens,"  he 
repeated  to  himself,  "  to-morrow  I  will  know  nothing." 

"  Mr.  Egan  will  not  expect  a  report,"  Gopal  Chand 
remarked  consolingly.  "  Circumstances  were  no  doubt 
beyond  control." 

The  words  penetrated  to  the  fatahst  in  Banarsi  Das. 
He  saw  Mr.  Egan  dead  on  the  office  floor.  "  To-morrow 
there  will  be  no  Gazette,"  he  murmured  abstractedly. 

The  matter-of-fact  Gopal  Chand  was  expostulating 
when  a  volley  of  rifle-fire  cut  him  short.  He  stopped 
dead  as  if  he  had  been  shot.  There  was  panic  in  the 
street.  They  had  now  reached  the  small  kiosk-Hke 
shrine  of  Hanuman  at  the  end  of  the  bazar,  and  bolted 
into  the  stationer's  shop  opposite.  There  was  a  cry 
that  the  cavalry  were  coming.  Rumour,  the  monster 
of  Riley's  imagination,  was  on  her  back,  a  cowed  and 
whimpering  beast,  vocal  still  but  with  a  new  intonation. 
Banarsi  Das  was  aware  of  a  change  of  mood  in  Sheikh 
Afzal's  bazar.  They  were  saying  now  that  there  had 
been  a  massacre  of  Indians  outside  the  Baradari  Gate, 
Barkatullah  had  been  arrested,  the  artillery  were 
training  guns  on  the  city,  aeroplanes  would  drop  bombs. 

Two  Brahminy  bulls  began  fighting  and  upset  a 
vegetable  stall.  Someone  shouted,  "  Rissala  I  The 
cavalry   have    come !     Lances  !  "     The   streets    were 


260  ABDICATION 

emptied.  There  was  a  burrowing  into  passages  and 
the  interior  of  shops.  Banarsi  Das  and  Gopal  Chand 
shared  the  divan  at  the  back  of  the  shop  with  Mool 
Chand,  the  stationer,  under  the  mirror  that  reflected 
the  gross  image  of  Hanuman  from  over  the  way. 

"  How  long  is  a  lance  ?  "  the  stationer  asked.  "  But 
it  is  impossible.  They  will  not  injure  law-abiding 
merchants." 

"  Not  the  troops,"  Gopal  Chand  reassured  him. 
"  They  are  coming  to  protect  you." 

But  the  long  minutes  passed  and  the  cavalry  did  not 
come.  Not  a  shot  had  been  heard  after  the  first 
volley.  Banarsi  Das  gazed  at  the  image  of  the  monkey- 
god  rudely  smeared  with  red  paste,  and  his  mind  dwelt 
on  irrelevant  things.  Between  him  and  the  road  were 
barricades  of  annotated  University  text-books,  Morte 
d' Arthur,  Ivanhoe,  the  same  selections  from  Tennyson 
that  he  had  read  at  Gandeshwar,  Stevenson's  Inland 
Voyage,  with  the  immoral  passage  in  it  where  the  girl 
waves  her  hand  at  the  author  in  the  boat;  the  first 
book  of  Paradise  Lost,  "  Sing,  heavenly  mouse."  He 
thought  dispassionately  of  Siri  Ram,  now  a  spirit.  Or 
was  the  spark  extinguished?  Skene — would  they  kill 
Skene  ?  He  was  as  strong  and  solid  as  a  tree.  Banarsi 
Das  was  lost  in  imponderable  abstractions.  He  watched 
the  progress  of  an  enormous  spider  on  the  wall.  An 
insect  beyond  a  certain  size,  he  reflected,  though 
innocent  of  nature,  would  not  be  permitted  to  Hve. 
All  Hfe  hung  on  the  caprice  of  the  arbiter  of  being  or 
not-being.  Why  should  not  insects  be  as  big  as  men  ? 
He  could  extinguish  the  spider.  The  thing  that 
intrigued  him  was  his  sense  of  the  unimportance  of 
being  or  not-being.  He  thought  of  Coleridge  and 
"  Porky."  Once  when  he  was  sinking  they  had  pulled 
him  out  of  the  abyss.     He  was  in  a  deeper  abyss,  but 


THE  MEETING  IN  THE  SQUARE       261 

he  did  not  hope  for  a  re-incarnation  of  the  god-in-the- 
machine;  he  did  not  hope  for  anything.  He  looked 
out  into  the  street  and  wondered  when  the  lancers  were 
coming,  an  incurious  observer  of  the  twitching  hand 
of  the  arbiter  who  had  baffled  him. 

Half  an  hour  passed,  and  the  lancers  did  not  come. 
The  din  in  the  direction  of  Thompsonpur  had  increased 
if  anything,  but  there  had  been  no  more  rifle-firing. 
Folk  whom  Banarsi  Das  had  met  in  the  street  came 
padding  back.  The  tide  was  ebbing  to  Gopalpura. 
Gopal  Chand  and  the  stationer  called  out  to  the  passers- 
by.  They  knew  no  more  than  those  who  had  stayed 
in  their  shops.  The  troops  had  fired.  Or  was  it  the 
police?  they  had  heard  thousands  had  perished. 
"  Reprisals  ?  Inshallah  !  Heaven  alone  knew  the  heart 
of  the  Sircar,  half  tiger,  half  lamb."  The  general 
impression  was  that  it  was  safer  to  sit  still.  Banarsi 
Das,  steeped  in  the  narcotic  of  indifference,  listened  to 
their  chatter.  Rumour  was  Hke  a  beast,  exploring  the 
four  walls  of  her  pen,  crouching,  uncertain.  One  had 
forgotten  that  she  was  ever  rampant. 

"  Let  us  go  on,"  Gopal  Chand  said  to  Banarsi  Das; 
"  Thompsonpur  will  not  be  safe.  We  can  spend  the 
night  in  my  brother's  house  in  the  mohalla  of  Piara 
Lai,  on  the  other  side  of  the  city." 

Banarsi  Das  followed  him  like  a  child.  He  had 
lost  all  will.  They  crossed  the  street  and  entered  one 
of  the  alleys  on  the  far  side.  Gopal  Chand  thought  it 
safer  to  avoid  the  main  thoroughfares.  They  were  now 
in  the  purlieus  which  Riley  had  explored  on  the  after- 
noon of  the  hartal,  in  a  Hindu  quarter.  The  street  of 
the  astrologers  was  very  still,  no  one  was  stirring. 
Through  the  open  gateways  they  saw  walls  painted  with 
faded  geometrical  designs,  pictures  of  elephants  and 
tigers  and  bowmen,  and  Rajas  in  their  chariots  going 


262  ABDICATION 

out  to  war.  In  the  spacious  courtyards,  motionless 
figures  sat  listening  to  the  distant  roar,  rising  and  falling, 
like  the  commotion  of  the  Mohurrum.  They  appeared 
quiet  and  detached,  as  if  they  had  had  no  business  in 
life  save  to  mark  the  fall  of  sand  in  an  hour-glass. 
Solemn  little  urchins  were  playing  listlessly  with 
bricks  of  dried  cow-dung  and  mud.  No  sound  of 
angry  breakers  could  disturb  this  backwater.  It  was 
a  home  of  ancient  peace.  To  Banarsi  Das  the  quarter 
recalled  careless  forgotten  hours,  a  film  of  childhood 
flickering  before  a  drowning  man.  It  revived  in  him  a 
poignant  longing  for  life.  All  his  old  cares  returned. 
He  became  a  child  again,  a  prey  of  fear.  The  arbiter 
of  being  or  not-being  was  unkind  to  Banarsi  Das  until 
the  last. 

As  he  threaded  the  network  of  alleys,  emerging 
every  now  and  then  into  a  crowded  thoroughfare,  he 
became  as  sensitive  to  apprehension  as  when  he  was 
crouching  in  the  square  behind  Tilok  Ram.  Gopal 
Chand  ran  on  prosily  by  his  side,  as  if  the  piUars  of  his 
world  were  not  tottering. 

"  It  is  a  pity  that  you  destroyed  your  notes,  Banarsi 
Das.  Mr.  Egan  will  ask  for  detailed  report.  To-day, 
of  course,  is  too  late,  but  to-morrow " 

Banarsi  Das  had  taken  no  notes.  In  his  tumbling 
universe  there  was  no  to-morrow,  no  Mr.  Egan,  no 
Gazette. 

*'  Mr.  Riley  will  be  distressed  when  he  hears  of  the 
outbreak.  Barkatullah  professes  to  be  a  disciple  of 
Mahatma  Gandhi." 

Mr.  Riley  was  safe,  Banarsi  Das  reflected.  And 
Skene?  Banarsi  Das  could  not  conceive  of  anything 
happening  to  Skene.  In  his  rock-like  strength  and 
gentleness  his   old   Principal   appeared   impregnable, 


THE  MEETING   IN  THE   SQUARE       268 

immortal.  It  was  impossible  that  BarkatiiUah  could 
injure  Skene. 

They  were  now  in  a  Muhammadan  quarter.  Tht 
slender  minarets  of  a  mosque  were  visible  over  a  blank 
wall  on  their  left.  Banarsi  Das  noticed  a  purdah 
ekka  with  a  red  campanula-shaped  awning  drawn  up 
outside. 

"  Barkatullah  is  very  clever,"  Gopal  Chand  con- 
tinued. "  That  speech !  He  has  been  studying 
Antony.  I  know  it.  We  had  Shakespeare's  Julius 
CcBsar  in  our  M.A.  course.  Everything  was  arranged 
like  theatre.  Mool  Chand  told  me  that  the  sepoys 
received  ten  rupees  each  from  the  fund." 

But  Banarsi  Das  stood  transfixed  on  the  pavement 
staring  at  the  back  of  the  agile  old  man  who  had  left 
the  ekka  and  WcLs  ascending  the  steps  into  the  house. 
It  was  the  Bulbul. 

Gopal  Chand  saw  him  at  the  same  moment.  "  The 
Bulbul-i-Sehwan,"  he  whispered,  clutching  Banarsi 
Das'  shoulder.  "  Come  back,  Banarsi  Das,  or  he  will 
do  you  some  harm,"  and  he  disappeared  down  a  side 
alley  into  the  next  street. 

But  the  pariah  of  fortune  was  too  terrified  to  move. 
The  faithful  Shinwari  had  descended  to  mount  guard 
over  the  prophet.  Banarsi  Das  faced  his  executioner, 
leaning  like  a  condemned  prisoner  for  support  against 
the  wall. 

The  Shinwari  glared  at  him  in  pious  rage.  "  Yezid  ! 
Betrayer  !     Accursed  Kafir  spy  !  "  he  cried. 

Banarsi  Das,  seeing  the  lathi  in  his  hand,  turned  his 
face  to  the  wall,  and  covered  his  head  with  his  hands. 
He  recognised  in  the  Shinwari  the  appointed  agent  of 
that  arbiter  whom  he  had  never  understood. 


CHAPTER  IX 

RILEY 


"  Riley  is  well  out  of  it,"  was  Skene's  first  thought 
when  he  heard  the  details  of  the  outbreak  from  Egan. 

Riley  was  free  at  last  from  hybrid  cares.  When 
Banarsi  Das  was  sleeping  on  the  horns  of  the  dilemma 
he  lay  awake,  forgetful  of  politics,  in  his  dunga  on  the 
Dal  Lake  in  Kashmir.  He  no  longer  wooed  sleep  with 
thoughts  of  the  English  river.  He  had  only  to  lift 
the  reed  screen  by  his  bed  and  stretch  out  his  hand  to 
feel  the  same  water-weed  that  grew  in  the  pool  below 
the  old  mill.  The  sweet  unpolitical  smell  of  the 
marshes  rose  from  the  bank.  He  watched  the  moon- 
light glistening  on  the  lotus  leaf,  and  listened  to  the 
frogs'  hymn  to  dankness  until  he  fell  asleep.  When 
he  woke  up  in  the  morning  the  reed-warblers  were 
chattering  in  the  rushes.  A  golden  oriole  was  singing 
in  the  willows.  A  kingfisher  dropped  into  the  water 
like  a  plummet,  a  yard  from  where  he  lay  in  his  tub, 
and  rose  and  hovered  and  perched  again  on  a  snag, 
regarding  him  with  a  sideways,  trustful,  contented 
look,  his  neck  sunk  in  a  breast  of  flame.  Riley  watched 
the  kingfisher  dive  again  and  emerge  with  his  minnow, 
his  sapphire  back  glistening  in  the  sun.  He  sang  as 
he  splashed  in  his  bath.  He  had  found  a  way  of 
happiness  in  the  East. 

264 


RILEY  2«5 

Yes,  young  Riley  was  well  out  of  it.  Skene  knew 
that  he  was  somewhere  on  the  road  to  Tibet.  And  now 
he  would  have  to  write  and  tell  him  of  the  tragic  thing 
that  had  happened  to  Banarsi  Das.  He  had  given 
the  address  of  the  Political  Agent  at  Leh,  but  the  letter 
would  probably  take  months  to  reach  him.  "  Banarsi 
Das  has  quite  lost  his  reason,"  Skene  wrote.  "  When 
I  went  to  see  him  in  the  hospital  he  was  making  sawing 
movements  with  his  arms  in  the  air,  first  on  one  side 
and  then  on  the  other.  The  intelligence  has  completely 
gone  out  of  his  eyes." 

Skene  could  not  discover  what  had  happened  to 
the  Pathan.  Dean  was  depressed  and  uncommunica- 
tive, though  the  police  had  handled  the  outbreak 
remarkably  well.  They  held  up  the  mob  in  Empress 
Road  three  hundred  yards  from  the  Baradari  Gate, 
and  only  fired  one  volley  over  their  heads. 

Old  Hobbs,  however,  disapproved.  "  Firing  over 
their  heads  is  no  use,"  he  said.  "  What  this  country 
wants  is  a  damned  good  revolution.  Look  at  the 
casualties,  three  Englishmen  finished  off  before  the 
mob  got  to  the  Baradari  Gate,  the  only  Englishmen 
they  met,  inoffensive  young  shop  assistants  riding 
about  on  bicycles.  The  police  fire  one  volley  and  the 
crowd  runs  away.  An  old  woman  is  hit  in  the  leg 
a  mile  off.  The  only  rioter  killed  was  that  Ghazi  fellow, 
Jemal  Khan.  He  asked  for  it.  Running  amok  with 
a  knife  !  He  would  have  finished  Mills  if  he  hadn't 
been  handy  with  his  revolver.  The  other  casualty, 
Egan's  reporter,  doesn't  count.  He  was  knocked 
on  the  head  by  his  own  people. 

Bruce-Swinnerton,  too,  was  dissatisfied  with  the 
casualty  list.  "  They  must  learn  their  lesson,"  he 
said.  "  Until  you  wipe  the  floor  with  them  they  won't 
understand  who  is  top  dog.  " 


266  ABDICATION 

The  talk  turned  to  the  "  scuttle." 

"  On  the  first  of  January  I  am  going  to  pull  out 
my  shirt  and  black  my  face,"  Hill  said.  "  I  wouldn't 
be  a  District  Officer  under  the  New  Councils  for  five 
thousand  a  month." 

Wace-Holland,  who  now  joined  the  group,  overheard 
the  cynic.  "  We've  got  to  look  facts  in  the  face,"  he 
told  Hill.  "  We've  had  our  innings.  It  is  the  Indians' 
turn  now.    Riley  was  quite  right.    We  have  abdicated." 

Hill  had  no  retort. 

"  We  could  hold  them  down  if  we  liked,"  the  General 
added;  "  though  perhaps  not  permanently.  But  that 
sort  of  government  is  out  of  date." 

"  We  have  put  their  house  in  order,"  Skene  said. 

"  Yes,  we  have  done  that  for  them,  and  it  is  some- 
thing to  be  proud  of.  I  wish  we  could  go  on  putting 
it  in  order." 

"  Is  Gopalpura  any  the  happier  for  Thompsonpur?  " 
Skene  remembered  the  times  he  had  discussed  the 
problem  with  Riley.  "  Somebody  had  to  put  their 
house  in  order,"  he  would  say.  But  Riley  would  not 
admit  it.  He  was  perversely  out  of  sympathy  with 
the  Thompsonisation  of  the  New  Province. 

"What  have  we  done  for  them?"  Riley  would 
say.  "  Efficiency,  Hygiene,  Education,  Police.  Has 
it  made  them  any  happier  ?  Our  schools  have  destroyed 
their  traditions  and  filled  the  country  with  hordes 
of  hungry,  unsatisfied  youths  like  Banarsi  Das,  with 
nothing  to  do.  Hygiene,  Sanitation,  Drains;  we 
spend  too  much  on  them.  Increased  population;  it 
is  the  curse  of  the  country,  especially  among  the 
intelligentsia.  '  Thou  hast  multiplied  the  nation, 
but  not  increased  its  joy.'  " 

"  Not  of  the  intelligentsia  perhaps,"  Skene  admitted. 
'*  But  it's  hardly  fair  to  take  Banarsi  Das  as  a  typical 


RILEY  267 

product  of  our  system.  Go  into  the  districts.  The 
people  are  perfectly  happy.  They  don't  understand 
the  Reforms  and  they  don't  want  them.  They'd 
like  us  to  stay.  After  all,  our  first  obligation  is  to  the 
zemindar.  The  tillers  of  the  soil  make  up  ninety  per 
cent  of  the  population,  and  if  it  wasn't  for  us  they 
wouldn't  have  any  soil  to  till.  Not  in  the  Canal 
colony." 

And  Riley,  who  a  few  days  before  had  taken  Sir 
Antony  Greening  over  the  Canal  colony,  knew  that 
Skene's  picture  was  true.  They  went  alone  and  nobody 
knew  who  they  were.  It  was  impossible  to  mistake 
the  friendliness  of  the  villagers;  they  were  made 
welcome  everywhere  simply  because  they  were  English- 
men. "  The  respect  our  fathers  earned,"  Riley  said 
to  Sir  Antony.  "  You  see  the  agitation  has  not  passed 
beyond  the  railway  yet.  These  folk  judge  us  as  they 
find  us.  The  only  EngUshman  they  know  is  their 
District  Officer,  and  the  D.O.  has  always  been  their 
father  and  mother."  "  One  can  see  that,"  Greening 
said,  "  their  welcome  is  so  jolly  spontaneous."  A 
whole  hamlet  had  turned  out  to  greet  them  and  spread 
a  mat  for  them  in  the  shade.  It  was  then  that  Riley 
told  him  about  Barkatullah  and  Mograon.  They  would 
meet  with  sour  looks  from  the  zemindars  in  the  dis- 
affected tehsil.  The  Labour  Member's  comment  was  a 
trifle  reactionary.  "  By  Jove,"  he  said,  "  if  I  were 
a  District  Officer  I  should  loathe  the  agitator." 

And  that  was  exactly  what  everyone  felt  in  the  club. 

The  tragic  part  of  it  was  that  the  miUions,  the  real 
backbone  of  the  country,  were  very  much  happier  for 
Thompsonpur.  Yet  Thompsonpur  and  all  that  it  stood 
for  had  to  go  because  it  could  not  be  reconciled  with 
an  abstract  principle  which  meant  nothing  to  them. 

The    deflated    Hill    recovered    himself    sufficiently 


268  ABDICATION 

to  say  to  the  General,  "  But  the  masses  don't  want 
Swaraj,  sir." 

"  The  masses ;  no,  I  don't  suppose  they  do,  but  they'll 
have  to  have  it  whether  they  want  it  or  not.  We 
are  pledged  to  it  and  there  is  no  going  back." 

The  General's  uncompromising  acceptance  of  the 
"  scuttle  "  shocked  everyone  in  the  room.  With  him 
the  whole  question  was  fined  down  to  a  point  of  honour. 
Riley  had  said  much  the  same  thing  to  Skene,  only 
he  had  added — to  the  Anglo-Indian  a  blasphemous 
assertion — "  In  every  country  the  voice  of  the  intelli- 
gentsia is  the  voice  of  the  people.  The  masses  may  not 
want  Swaraj,  but  they  will  soon  be  made  to  want  it." 

The  odd  thing  was  that  nobody  in  the  club  would 
have  admitted  that  he  was  out  of  sympathy  with 
nationaUsm.  Skene  would  have  argued  that  it  was 
not  the  principle  he  quarrelled  with,  but  its  application. 
"  If  only  these  boneless  agitators  would  come  out  into 
the  open  and  explain  to  the  masses  that  it  was  unmanly 
of  them  to  submit  to  be  governed  by  a  handful  of  aliens 
I  should  respect  them  more.  And  let  them  admit 
what  we  have  done  for  them.  BarkatuUah  with  his 
lies  and  trumped-up  grievances  makes  me  sick." 

Barkatullah's  trial  was  impending.  The  poHtician 
who  roused  the  latent  reactionary  in  the  Labour  Member 
was  not  likely  to  get  off  with  a  hght  sentence.  He 
was  Thompsonpur's  standing  argument  against  Swaraj. 

"  The  poisonous  fellow  ought  to  be  hanged,"  the 
General  said.  Here  Wace-Holland  was  in  agreement 
with  Hill,  who  reminded  him  that  even  Riley  could  not 
stomach  BarkatuUah. 

"  Where  is  Riley?  "  Farquhar  asked  Skene. 

Skene  was  a  little  vague  about  Riley.  He  was  off 
trekking  somewhere  in  Tibet  or  Turkestan,  he  believed. 
His  letters  were  to  be  sent  on  to  Leh. 


RILEY 

"  He  didn't  stick  to  his  hospital  long."  Hill's 
chuckle  betrayed  satisfaction.  One  knew  he  was 
thinking,  "  Riley  is  a  waster,  he  will  never  do  anything." 

Nothing  more  was  heard  of  the  failed  journalist 
and  physician  until  a  month  or  six  weeks  afterwards. 
Osborne,  Wace-Holland's  G.S.O.I.,  who  had  been  on 
leave,  turned  up  in  the  club  and  mentioned  casually 
that  he  had  met  Riley  in  Ladakh. 

"  You  saw  Riley?  "  the  General  asked. 

Skene  thought  of  Waring.  "  A  man  upstarted 
somewhere  as  a  god,  hordes  grown  European-hearted." 

But  that  was  not  Riley's  way.  He  would  be  more 
likely  to  cultivate  the  protective  colouring  of  the 
Asiatic. 

"  Yes,  I  saw  Riley,"  Osborne  told  them.  "  It  was 
at  a  place  called  Shyok,  near  where  I  shot  my  big 
Ammon.  I  had  pitched  my  tent  among  some  bushes 
in  a  sandy  nullah,  and  I  was  strolling  out  before  supper 
to  smoke  a  pipe  and  look  at  the  sunset  when  I  came 
across  an  encampment  of  Ladakhis.  There  seemed 
something  famiUar  and  shipshape  about  the  camp, 
a  regular  mule-line,  heel-ropes,  iron  pegs.  The  men 
were  squatting  outside  their  black  tents  over  a  yak- 
dung  fire.  I  noticed  one  of  them,  a  spare  figure, 
dressed  hke  the  others  in  a  yellow  skin  coat,  but  of 
much  fighter  build.  He  had  a  short  skimpy  beard, 
thinnish,  yet  a  trifle  thick  for  a  Mongol.  I  was  looking 
at  him  a  little  curiously  when  his  eyes  caught  mine 
and  he  started.  He  jumped  up  and  skipped  across 
the  nuUah  as  joUy  as  a  cricket.  '  Hullo,  Osborne,' 
he  shouted.    At  first  I  didn't  know  him  from  Adam. 

*  Hullo,  Riley,'   I  said,  when  it  dawned  on  me  who  it 
was.    '  Where  are  you  off  to,  and  who  are  your  pals  ?  ' 

*  Oh,  we  are  pilgrims,'  he  said ;    '  come  along  and  be 
introduced.' 


270  ABDICATION 

"  They  made  room  for  me  by  the  fire  and  were  very 
jolly  and  hospitable.  I  liked  everything  about  Riley's 
pals  except  their  smell  and  the  filthy  tea  they  would 
have  me  drink  with  lumps  of  butter  floating  in  it,  but 
nothing  seemed  to  worry  Riley.  They  were  going  to  the 
Mansarowar  Lake  in  Tibet,  and  were  pushing  on  to  be  in 
time  to  circmnambulate  Kailas  before  it  was  too  cold. 
They  are  probably  padding  round  the  mountain  now." 

Hill  was  sceptical.  Riley  would  never  get  through ; 
the  Tibetans  would  stop  him  at  the  frontier. 

"  Oh,  will  they?  You  don't  know  Riley.  He  is  a 
sort  of  Mahatma  among  them.  They  are  praying 
for  him  in  all  the  monasteries.  I  beheve  he  could  walk 
straight  into  Lhasa  if  he  chose.  He  is  an  eye-doctor, 
you  know ;  cataract  is  a  scourge  in  Tibet.  Two  of  those 
Ladakhis " 

But  this  apotheosis  of  Riley  was  too  much  for  Hill. 
* '  Riley  an  eye-doctor !  That  explains  what  he  was  doing 
in  Calcutta.  The  fellow's  a  quack;  he  couldn't  have 
spent  more  than  two  months  in  the  hospital.  I  am 
sorry  for  the  Tibetans." 

"You  needn't  pity  them;  Riley  has  learned  the 
trick  all  right.  He  is  a  specialist.  Mind  you,  he  only 
touches  cataract,  and  he  hasn't  bungled  a  case  since 
he  left  Srinagar.  His  fame  precedes  him.  The  Lamas 
are  waiting  for  him  all  along  the  road  !  " 

"  They  are  lucky  to  have  Riley,"  the  General  said; 
"  the  only  eye-doctors  the  Tibetans  are  hkely  to  get 
are  the  Kauchas  or  their  local  equivalent.  They 
used  to  come  up  to  Quetta,  I  remember,  and  the  poor 
devils  they  bhnded  were  taken  into  our  hospitals. 
The  Kaucha  operates  with  a  rusty  knife.  The  imme- 
diate effect  is  that  the  patient  sees,  and  thinks  he  is 
cured.  Then  in  two  or  three  days  septic  poisoning 
sets  in  and  he  is  completely  blind.    The  Kaucha  has 


RILEY  271 

decamped  with  a  big  fat  fee ;  he  is  an  itinerant  quack 
and  takes  care  not  to  cover  the  same  ground  twice. 
I  had  them  all  arrested  when  I  was  in  Beluchistan 
and  sent  them  down  to  Sibi  by  train. 

"  Beluchistan  is  one  of  the  few  places  where  the 
British  still  rule,"  the  General  added.  "  One  can  do 
something  to  help  the  people  there." 

Skene  smiled.  He  could  imagine  Hill  saying,  "  Put 
that  in  your  pipe  and  smoke  it,  young  Riley."  The 
General  in  accepting  Swaraj  bowed  to  necessity,  but 
he  evidently  had  no  illusions  about  it. 

Osborne  said  that  Riley's  greatest  difficulty  was  in 
getting  his  patients  to  keep  their  bandages  on.  They 
wanted  to  tear  them  off  every  ten  minutes  to  see  if 
they  could  see.  That  was  why  he  generally  had  two 
or  three  blindfolded  Lamas  in  his  caravan  on  led  horses. 
He  insisted  on  keeping  his  patients  under  observation 
until  they  were  cured. 

"  Two  of  the  Ladakhis  in  his  camp  had  their  eyes 
bandaged.  One  of  them  was  so  pleased  with  life  that 
he  was  going  to  make  the  pilgrimage  of  prostration,  as 
they  call  it.  Riley  got  him  to  show  me  how  it  was 
done — down  on  his  knees,  then  fiat  on  his  face,  his 
arms  stretched  out  to  mark  the  spot  where  he  would 
toe  the  line  for  the  next  advance,  and  so  all  the  way 
round  like  a  green  looper-caterpillar.  It  would  take 
him  twenty  days,  he  told  me,  and  he  seemed  rather  to 
look  forward  to  it." 

"  It  would  be  just  Hke  young  Riley,"  Hill  said,  "  to 
do  the  belly-crawl  with  him." 

Everybody  laughed.  "  Just  like  him,"  Osborne 
said.  "  I  always  liked  Riley,  though  of  course  he  is 
as  mad  as  a  hatter." 

The  General  remembered  seeing  the  pilgrims  circum- 
ambulating the  Lingkor  in  Lhasa  in  just  the  same 


272  ABDICATION 

way  when  he  was  there  with  the  expedition  in  1904. 
He  had  heard  the  ceremony  was  still  observed  in 
Benares.  But  he  was  concerned  about  Riley.  He 
turned  to  Osborne.  "  Do  you  think  he  has  everything 
he  wants?  "  he  asked. 

Osborne  laughed.  "  Riley  doesn't  want  much,  sir. 
He  is  travelling  light — got  all  his  kit  on  one  mule. 
As  for  supplies,  I  don't  suppose  the  grateful  populace 
let  him  pay  for  anything.  By  the  way,  though,  I 
have  a  message  for  you,  Skene;  he  doesn't  like  their 
'baccy.  He  wants  twelve  pounds  of  some  mixture. 
He  told  me  he  was  sending  a  man  to  you  with  a  letter." 

As  the  club  was  emptying,  the  General  ordered  four 
quarter-pound  tins  of  Club  Mixture.  "  Put  them  in 
Skene  Sahib's  motor,"  he  told  the  ahdar.  Skene  was 
one  of  the  last  to  leave.  Wace-HoUand  passed  through 
the  door  with  him  and  paused  on  the  steps  discussing 
the  probability  of  rain.  Then  after  he  had  said  good- 
night he  called,  "  You  will  find  some  tobacco  in  your 
car.     It  is  for  young  Riley.     May  as  well  make  it  a 

baker's  dozen.     Tell  him No,  I'll  write  to  him. 

I'll  send  the  letter  over  to-morrow — and  a  pipe  or  two. 
He  won't  have  any  use  for  the  Lhasa  brand." 

II 

The  General's  gift  lay  on  a  shelf  in  Skene's  office  for 
two  or  three  months.  Skene  had  almost  given  up  hope 
of  hearing  from  Riley  when  he  was  disturbed  one  morn- 
ing by  a  loud,  strange  noise  in  the  hall.  He  opened  the 
door  and  discovered  a  sturdy  Tibetan  in  the  passage 
who,  unimpressed  by  the  authority  vested  in  the 
bureaucratic  scarlet,  was  arguing  his  claims  for  admis- 
sion with  the  office  chaprassi.  "  Let  him  in,"  Skene 
called  to  the  man,  and  the  Tibetan  entered,  grinning 


RILEY  278 

cheerfully,  and  dumped  his  long  kilta  ^  on  the  floor. 
He  had  come  from  Gartok  over  the  Shipki  Pass  by  the 
Hindustan-Tibet  road,  but  had  fallen  ill  at  Pool,  where 
he  had  been  tended  by  the  Moravian  Missionaries.  He 
had  left  his  "  Sarb,"  as  he  called  him  in  his  northern 
accent,  at  Gartok  in  good  health,  and  was  to  meet 
him  at  Leh  on  his  return  from  Kailas.  He  spoke  with 
the  loud  bell-like  intonation  of  the  wilderness,  where 
men  call  to  one  another  over  wide  spaces — not  very 
intelligibly,  but  Skene  gathered  that  Riley  had  given 
him  sight.  The  musty  smell  of  ancient  blankets, 
butter  lamps  and  barley  beer  pervaded  the  office  of  the 
D.P.I. ,  as  the  Tibetan,  delving  in  his  kilta ,  produced, 
first  his  *'  Sarb's  "  letter,  then  a  shining  bronze  image 
of  the  Buddha,  and  presented  them  to  Skene  with  pious 
pride.  Skene  placed  the  Buddha  on  his  writing-table 
with  becoming  reverence  and  opened  Riley's  letter. 

He  had  written  from  Gartok,  not  a  hundred  miles 
from  Kailas.  Apparently  he  was  having  difficulties 
with  the  officials,  but  he  barely  touched  on  them. 
"  Please  give  Phuntshog  twelve  pounds  of  'baccy,"  he 
began  prosaically,  "  different  mixtures,  and  some  Keat- 
ing. Don't  forget  the  Keating.  Every  Mongol  is  a 
conductor  of  vermin."  Skene  had  dismissed  Phuntshog 
after  satisfying  himself  as  to  his  needs,  but  he  was 
already  conscious  of  a  fiery  itching  under  his  sleeve. 

" also  my  Arrian  and  Strabo,  which  I  left  on  the 

shelf  of  the  office  in  the  Gazette.  How's  Egan  getting 
on  ?  I  hope  he  is  kind  to  Banarsi  Das — not  sitting  on 
him  too  much.  I  particularly  want  the  Strabo,  as  I 
have  been  thinking  a  lot  about  the  old  Susa  Persepolis 
road  by  Ahwaz,  Ram  Hormuz  and  Bebehan.  I  wonder 
if  there  is  much  eye  trouble  in  Southern  Persia.  The 
road  will  keep,  of  course,  but  I  like  to  picture  it.    And 

^  A  wicker  basket  carried  on  the  back. 
T 


274  ABDICATION 

please  throw  in  a  Golden  Treasury.  I  want  a  copy  of 
Lycidas  badly.  For  the  last  week  or  so  I  have  been 
trying  to  piece  together  the  passage  beginning,  *  For 
so  to  interpose  a  little  ease.'  I  have  six  complete  lines 
and  some  fragments,  but  they  won't  fit  in,  and  on  the 
march  I  find  myself  repeating  them  impotently  all 
day, '  Whether  beyond  the  stormy  Hebrides,' — and  then 
at  the  end,  '  Looks  towards  Namancos  and  Bayona's 
hold.*  How  does  this  join  with  '  Where  thou  perhaps 
to  our  moist  vows  denied,  visitest  the  bottom  of  the 
monstrous  world  '  ?  No.  That's  not  it.  By  the  way, 
what  a  presage  of  Kitchener !  A  jagged  old  castle  on 
a  cliff  put  the  passage  in  my  mind  like  St.  Michael's 
Mount,  and  very  like  the  fort  at  Tauz  Kharmatli. 
But  at  Tauz  Kharmatli  I  had  my  Lycidas.  Remember, 
old  Skene,  if  I  don't  find  a  Golden  Treasury  at  the 
bottom  of  the  kilta,  my  ghost  will  haunt  you,  even  if 
it  has  to  suffer  the  contagion  of  Thompsonpur." 

Skene  smiled.  Incorrigible  dreamer  !  he  thought  as 
he  took  down  his  Milton  from  the  shelf.  Riley's 
spiritual  vagrancies  were  as  incalculable  as  his  physical. 
Where  is  he?  When  does  he  hope  to  reach  Kailas? 
What  is  his  trouble  with  the  officials?  But  most  of 
the  letter  was  like  that.  Stray,  irrelevant  thoughts, 
jotted  down  casually  after  the  day's  march,  generally 
about  birds  and  flowers — how  the  ravens  hopping 
pertly  round  him  thought  his  notebook  was  something 
to  eat,  an  intelligent,  curious,  black-coated  congrega- 
tion, fat  and  prosperous ;  the  sheen  on  their  wings  was 
like  polished  ebony;  their  approaches  and  retreats, 
stratagems,  rivalries  and  affectations  were  a  parody 
of  the  Comedie  humaine.  He  had  spied  a  blue  poppy 
half  a  mile  from  the  road,  a  Meconopsis  six  foot  high, 
blue  flowerets  on  a  prickly  stalk ;  it  stood  up  among  the 
splintered  boulders  on  the  bank  of  a  tarn  like  a  calvaire. 


RILEY  275 

Riley  was  off  again.  The  calvaire  evoked  Brittany; 
Brittany  Treguier;  Treguier  Renan,  and  Renan  by  a 
train  of  oblique  association  planted  him,  quite  by 
accident,  where  he  happened  to  be. 

"  I  hope  you  like  the  Buddha.  It  is  the  Bodhisat 
Padmapani  seated  on  a  lotus  leaf,  the  gift  of  a  grateful 
patient,  a  monk  of  Tashigong.  I  am  glad  I  learnt  the 
cataract  operation.  It  has  made  all  the  difference. 
I  can't  just  loaf.  I  am  a  competent  idler  when  I  have 
got  work,  but  I  am  no  good  at  it  when  there  is  nothing 
to  do.  I  have  chewed  the  lotus  and  found  it  a  taste- 
less herb.  I  thought  of  surveying,  but  that  would  not 
bring  me  into  touch  with  the  Tibetans ;  it  would  only 
make  them  more  suspicious.  Besides,  scientific  details 
bore  me,  sounding  lakes,  measuring  the  cubic  feet  of 
water  in  a  stream,  and  all  that.  If  one  lives  with 
people  one  must  bring  them  something  more  than 
curiosity.  The  thing  I  have  brought  them  is  the  best 
I  could  think  of.  I  wonder  I  didn't  think  of  it  before. 
It  is  so  easy  to  give  sight  to  people  who  have  lost  all 
hope  of  seeing,  yet  it  is  such  a  tremendous  obligation 
that,  when  I  think  how  little  it  cost  me,  I  often  feel  a 
fraud.  They  think  it  a  miracle,  of  course,  and  me  a 
mage.  There  is  a  merchant  in  Gartok  who  wants  to 
adopt  me,  and  an  old  Lama  in  Galdang  Tso  who,  when 
he  saw  his  Buddhas  and  Bodhisats  in  a  row  on  the 
altar,  burst  into  tears;  for  years  he  had  only  known 
they  were  there  by  the  touch  and  seen  nothing  but  the 
flicker  of  the  wicks  burning  in  butter  lamps,  and  these 
were  becoming  dimmer.  For  the  first  time  since  he 
came  to  the  monastery  when  he  was  quite  a  young  man 
he  was  able  to  distinguish  the  figures  in  the  Wheel  of 
Life  frescoed  on  the  wall.  He  looked  out  into  the 
courtyard  and  watched  the  ravens  and  the  blue  pigeons 
lovingly.    The  old  Lama  was  not  without  attachment. 


276  ABDICATION 

I  wonder  how  much  he  remembered  of  Hght  and  shade 
and  colour."  Here  there  was  more  about  flowers. 
He  had  found  the  Alpine  yellow  poppy  "  Nudicaule, 
very  rare.  You  remember  the  Walberswick  kind 
between  the  salt  marshes  and  the  sea. 

"  Thank  God,  I  haven't  got  to  write  Tibet  up. 
The  only  thing  that  would  spoil  this  country  for  me 
would  be  having  to  describe  it,  but  I  will  have  some 
things  to  tell  you  about  human  nature,  especially 
Lama  nature,  when  I  get  home.  I  think  it  is  true  that 
religious  people  are  more  wicked  than  others,  but  this 
is  natural,  and  as  it  should  be,  because  people  who  are 
good  already  don't  want  any  religion.  Here  rehgion 
is  all  Mantras,  Abracadabra,  Mumbo  Jumbo,  or,  as  in 
the  case  of  the  immured  monks,  what  Hill  would  call 
'  the  scuttle  '  from  life.  Yet  humanity  is  preserved  in 
spite  of  it." 

Riley  wanted  to  go  home  by  Turkestan,  over  the 
Karakoram  Pass  by  Leh,  then  by  the  railway  from 
Andijan.  He  meant  to  get  down  to  the  Oxus  by 
Bokhara  and  Samarkand,  to  Orgunj6  if  the  Bolsheviks 
did  not  circumvent  him.  He  had  discovered  Orgunje 
at  last  in  the  derelict  village  of  Aurganj,  the  old  capital 
of  Khiva,  spoiled  by  the  Moguls.  He  reminded  Skene 
that  his  gift  of  healing  carried  him  a  long  way.  He 
was  dying  to  see  an  English  spring. 

"  Dine  with  me  at  the  club  on  June  30th.  You  will 
be  at  home  on  furlough  then.  I  may  be  late.  I  hope 
not.  Leave  a  note  for  me  with  the  hall-porter.  Any- 
how, I  will  be  in  time  to  hear  the  last  blackbirds  sing- 
ing, between  the  flowering  of  the  white  and  purple 
helleborine.  Join  me  on  a  wherry  on  the  Norfolk 
Broads.  We  will  have  the  whole  summer  before  us; 
the  loosestrife  and  the  meadowsweet  will  be  coming  on, 
the  hemp-agrimony  only  in  bud.     I'll  stay  at  home 


RILEY  277 

until  the  late  autumn.  Then  I  think  of  going  to  the 
Malay  islands  and  Siam.     I  want  to  see  Angkor." 

"  What  about  funds,  young  Riley?  "  Skene  reflected, 
but  the  economical  problem  was  dismissed  lightly  in 
the  next  paragraph.  "  I  shall  have  saved  quite  a  lot 
by  then.  Living  is  dirt  cheap,"  Riley  explained.  He 
hoped  he  would  never  have  to  take  a  fee  from  a  Tibetan, 
though  his  grateful  patients  wouldn't  let  him  pay  for 
sheep  and  chickens.  As  soon  as  he  left  Leh  his  expenses 
worked  out  at  less  than  thirty  shillings  a  week. 

He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  Thompsonpur  and  the 
Gazette.  Hardly  a  word  of  politics.  Only  at  the  end 
he  asked  for  news  of  Gandhi.  "If  we  are  sincere," 
he  said,  "  we  ought  to  welcome  him.  He  has  opened 
a  door;  whether  his  countrymen  pass  through  or  not 
we  shall  see ;  the  Englishman  who  would  bang  the  door 
to,  or  deny  that  it  exists,  is  either  a  knave  or  a  fool. 
Give  them  Swaraj.  What  does  it  matter  if  they  knock 
one  another  on  the  head,  or  neglect  their  drains,  or 
leave  their  dead  animals  in  the  middle  of  the  road? 
Race-hatred,  which  is  the  one  thing  that  ultimately 
matters,  would  disappear.  We  are  too  practical  and 
cocksure.  The  curse  of  the  country  has  been  our  gospel 
of  efficiency.  We  have  done  everything  imaginable  for 
the  Indians  in  a  very  superior  and  disagreeable  way. 
Parkinson's  predecessors  may  have  set  their  house  in 
order,  as  you  say,  but  if  you  were  an  Indian,  would  you 
like  to  have  your  house  set  in  order  by  Parkinson?  " 

Skene  smiled.  How  far  young  Riley  was  from 
earth  and  Thompsonpur !  Up  in  the  clouds  there 
under  the  shadow  of  Kailas  with  his  verminous 
Tibetans  no  doubt  he  was  happy. 

But  Phuntshog  would  be  waiting  for  his  letter. 
Skene  drew  out  a  sheet  of  writing-paper  and  inscribed 
at  the  top : 


278  ABDICATION 

["  We  are  here  by  our  own  moral  superiority,  by  the 
force  of  circumstance,  and  by  the  will  of  Providence. 
These  alone  constitute  our  charter  of  Government : 
and  in  doing  the  best  we  can  for  the  people  we  are 
bound  by  our  conscience  and  not  theirs." — John 
Lawrence.] 

"  So  much  for  politics.  Put  that  in  your  pipe  and 
smoke  it,  young  Riley,  as  Hill  would  say;  I  am  not 
arguin'  with  you,  I  am  only  tellin'  you;  nevertheless 
I  will  spend  July  with  you  on  the  Norfolk  Broads  or 
anywhere  you  like." 

Skene  had  come  across  John  Lawrence's  simple 
declaration  of  faith  soon  after  Riley  had  left,  and  he 
had  been  longing  to  fire  it  off  at  him  ever  since.  He 
imagined  the  young  Radical  digesting  it  with  his  back 
to  a  chorten  and  his  feet  on  mani  wall,  while  the  streamers 
of  the  praying  flags  rustled  in  the  wind,  and  there  were 
only  the  Lamas  and  ravens  to  listen  if  he  felt  moved  to 
debate. 

"  John  Lawrence  said  the  last  word,  young  Riley, 
about  the  rights  of  our  position  in  India,  and  it  would 
have  been  better  if  we  had  left  it  at  that.  But,  as  you 
say,  we've  abdicated,  and  we  can't  have  it  both  ways. 
Our  conscience  perhaps  is  not  so  robust  as  it  was.  Let 
us  then  hasten  the  wheels  of  Swaraj. 

"  Gandhi's  great  bluff,  as  everyone  calls  it,  continues. 
It  is  likely  to  be  put  to  the  test  in  the  next  few  months. 
Gandhi  is  an  optimist.  He  will  not  admit  that  he  is 
heading  for  anarchy.  He  believes  his  cause  is  just 
and  that  Government  will  submit.  We  shall  see 
Your  Mahatma  is  becoming  a  too  sophisticated  saint, 
to  my  mind — too  much  of  the  Jesuit  about  him. 

"  My  letter  about  Banarsi  Das  must  have  gone 
SLstray.  The  poor  Uttle  devil  was  knocked  on  the  head 
by  a  Pa  than  in  a  riot  at  Gopalpura.    There  had  been  a 


RILEY  279 

big  meeting  on  the  steps  of  Amir  Khan's  mosque. 
The  Bulbul-i-Sehwan  and  Barkatullah  made  inflam- 
matory speeches,  and  the  mob  saw  red.  Banarsi  Das 
was  laid  out  by  the  Pathan  with  his  lathi  and  left  for 
dead.  He  has  quite  lost  his  reason."  Skene  repeated 
the  sad  story  of  the  hospital.  "  The  Pathan  escaped. 
Dean  tells  me  he  is  somewhere  in  tribal  territory. 
Barkatullah  was  arrested.  He  is  in  the  Andamans, 
I  beheve.  He  deserves  to  be  hanged  a  dozen  times. 
He  is  as  responsible  as  anybody  for  the  wreck  that  is 
Banarsi  Das.  Of  course  there  is  the  usual  howl  about 
'  repression.'  The  Bulbul-i-Sehwan  apparently  was 
disgusted  with  Barkatullah  and  his  crew.  He  fell  in 
a  Ghazi  rush  on  a  picquet  in  Mardan;  they  attacked 
in  broad  daylight;  six  of  them,  all  Asmas  men,  were 
laid  out  in  their  black  robes.  He  was  a  crescentader 
of  the  old  Wahabi  school,  in  which  you  find  the  spirit 
of  Narasimha  Swami  translated  into  the  terms  of  Islam. 
"  Amba  Pershad  is  one  of  the  New  Ministers.  He  is 
responsible  for  Education,  which  means  that  he  is  my 
boss  now.  You  remember  his  text-book  on  Civies  which 
I  turned  down  and  he  was  so  angry  about.  I  hope  he 
doesn't  try  to  get  his  own  back.  He  has  been  very 
civil  so  far.  Bolton  got  his  G.S.I,  all  right,  and  is 
cultivating  the  manner  of  a  K.  Parky  really  has  a  K. 
Lady  P.  is  immensely  pleased  at  her  elevation.  She 
wants  him  to  retire,  and  is  preening  herself  for  the 
conquest  of  Wimbledon  or  Ealing.  Old  Wace-HoUand 
was  discussing  you  in  the  club  last  night.  He  loves 
you  dearly.  Hill,  of  course,  says  you  are  mad.  He 
always  did,  but  now  he  chuckles  at  his  perspicacity. 
'  Riley  an  eye-doctor ! '  By  the  way,  among  other 
things  you  are  a  quack.  He  is  going  to  write  to 
the  Dalai  Lama  to  have  you  arrested  for  practising 
without  a  diploma,  or  whatever  it  is.     Wace-Holland 


280  ABDICATION 

says  the  Tibetans  have  a  Medical  College  in  the  Potala. 
Why  not  go  through  the  course?  " 

In  the  evening  Skene  collected  Riley's  Arrian  and 
Strabo,  stole  a  copy  of  the  Golden  Treasury,  and  looked 
in  at  the  asylum  to  get  the  last  news  of  Banarsi  Das. 

"  Banarsi  Das  did  not  recognise  me  when  I  went  to 
see  him  last  night.  He  thinks  he  is  a  manjhi?-  He 
sits  on  the  end  of  his  bed  or  on  a  chair  all  day  and 
steers  his  craft  with  a  curtain-pole  past  imaginary 
obstacles  in  the  stream.  There  was  a  row  about  the 
pole  at  first.  Banarsi  Das  used  to  abstract  it  surrepti- 
tiously from  the  window  at  night,  and  the  ward  orderly 
used  to  take  it  away  from  him.  I  had  to  get  written 
sanction  from  the  Civil  surgeon  to  allow  him  to  retain 
it.  Just  like  them.  I  beheve  the  Babu  has  started  a 
file  on  the  case,  which  will  no  doubt  go  up  to  the 
Government  of  India  and  the  Secretary  of  State.  The 
vacant,  unattached  look  in  Banarsi  Das'  eye  makes  one 
pretty  miserable.  After  I  left  him  I  felt  as  if  I  had 
been  listening  to  a  pirrhai.^  *  Fortune  is  like  a  bird 
that  lights  on  a  wall.  In  a  moment  it  comes,  and  in  a 
moment  flies  away.'  You  know  the  kind  of  thing; 
it  makes  one  want  to  throw  back  one's  head  and  howl 
like  a  dog.  No  one  really  reaHses  that  we  are  bom  and 
die  in  futility  until  he  has  heard  a  pirrhai.  Banarsi 
Das'  is  a  placid  vacancy.  So  long  as  he  has  got  his 
curtain-pole  he  seems  content.  The  doctor  says  it  is  a 
lesion,  and  there  is  just  a  chance  that  he  may  recover, 
but  what  the  poor  little  devil  will  do  if  restored  to  an 
unsympathetically  sane  world,  God  only  knows. 

"  He  is  a  more  pathetic  figure  than  Siri  Ram." 
1  Boatman.  *  Bard. 

THE  END 


GENERAL  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA— BERKELEY 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

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56f  1  0  1954  ! 


i9r, 


^ 


•^ 


---  O  LD 
MAY  28 '65 -il  AM 

MAY  1  0  1999 


JUL  1  y  1960 


30lu\'«91^ 


prr, 


JUi  2  6  1963 


I.D  21-100m-l,'54(18878l6)476 


JUL  2  9  20(^ 


YCJ41019 


